Cheating Death 101
by PsychoDirector
Summary: It was a normal mission. Find some psychopaths, clean their minds, and win the trust of the other agents. But when the bodies pile up, it'll take more than a Dream Fluff to stay alive, especially as the murderer knows about Raz's curse, and is watching...
1. Derek Westfield, Action Receptionist

**_Psycho Director_: Hello. If you are reading this, the odds are you are a _Psychonauts_ fan. I LOVE YOU. Join me, and together we can create an army strong enough to dominate the important parts of the world (America and Japan... and England because they have Harry Potter) and turn everyone into slaves who are kept alive on beans, pickles and water and live only to help us develop a sequel. Or something. Because we all well know that Majesco is too emo-depressed over their 'orrible market to do it, Lucas Films is currently milking the Star Wars cash cow until it becomes emaciated and bleeds out of every pore, and no one bloody well knows what's up with Double Fine. So it's up to us.**

**In the meantime, please enjoy this random drablet about pens and some dude no one honestly cares about. The action doesn't really start until chapter three. Sorry. Plot development may be a dirty, story-killing whore, but he's the only one I can afford. Believe it or not, I'm not getting paid to write this. I usually end up paying it in insomnia, blood, and tears. It's really a beautiful thing.**

**Enjoy.**

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**_Derek _Westfield**, a powerful psychic world renowned for his amazing escapades, daring feats, and clever ability with cyrokinesis, was a receptionist that day. Due to a long and confusing dare with his friend (_and crush_, he confessed to himself silently), Michelle James, he found himself sitting placidly at the rippled, black, and polished official receptionist counter of Psychonauts HQ. The thin gray carpet scraped against his shining black shoes, the oak rims slowly pressed an imprint against the floor, which would never be fully able to be vacuumed out, and his pen tapped boredly against the edge closest to him.

_Tap, tap, tap…_

Derek had never realized, up until now, how absolutely, mind-numbingly boring being a receptionist could be. His official suit (a deep black tuxedo) fell into wrinkled groves around his slouched figure, only to change when one hand got tired of holding up his head and he switched to the other. Without it against his chin, his head would have doubtlessly slammed against the black counter, the tapping pen sent flying, and he would have fallen asleep in a pool of his own head-wound blood. It would have been an interesting change, no doubt, but he wasn't one for blatant masochism.

_Tap, tap, tap…_

The pen bounced on, its cheap plastic coating slowly chipping away against the hard… what was it? Plastic? Granite?… of the desk. Derek wondered, with a kind of bored detachment, if the sound would eventually make one of the clients in the room snap and begin on what was sure to be, if nothing else, a reasonably exciting homicidal rampage. Of course, if that were to hypothetically happen, Derek would have made their head explode without a second thought. Head explosion wasn't one of the tricks openly taught during his training, but… he learned things from other sources.

_Tap, tap, tap…_

Derek took a look around at the waiting clients, his eyes slowly panning over each of them in turn like a security camera. Well, at least the 'Nauts brought in some interesting characters, he had to confess that. A pair of Siamese twins (male, Asian, one large blue suit between them) were silently fighting over who would get the most chair between them (being connected, neither could fully sit in one of the chairs unless the other left one). A strongly Indian-looking man (really long, brown hair, leathery white jacket, moccasins) was stroking what looked like a hawk on his shoulder. A person Derek recognized as Agent Vincent Ricotoni (spiked black hair, slightly wrinkled suit, cocky grin) was playing a game of Electronic Pocket Solitaire. A young woman with curly blue hair done up in two bouncy pigtails (wearing a dark blue overall dress and a white blouse, with a daisy in her hair) was reading a book. Finally, a small boy (red goggles, helmet, dark purple jacket, backpack, jeans rolled up at the ends) was fidgeting around in his seat excitedly.

_Tap, tap, tap…_

"Isn't this _great_?" A voice piped up, startling Derek out of his thoughts and forcing his arm away from his chin. Surprisingly, his neck managed to take the weight of his skull, and he, in turn, managed to look forward at the clients. The boy with the goggles had turned to the woman with the daisy in her hair, and Derek wasn't surprised that he was the one who had spoken. He was the only one who didn't look bored out of his mind (except for Vincent, who was happy because of some goings-on in his game, and the daisy woman, who had this constant happy/placid look on her face).

"It will be. I'm going to get my next mission briefing today. They're always fun!" The blue-haired lady chuckled.

"Sweet! Do you know what it is yet?"

"Well, no, but I have an idea. After all, Truman owes me from our last mission together, and he knows I've been dying to go to France, and it just so happens that a case opened up yesterday around that area…"

"You're going to _France_?"

"I wouldn't make any promises, but Truman's not the type to let a debt go unpaid."

"So how many missions have you been on?"

"What is this, an interview?"

"Sorry, just asking."

"Nah, it's fine. I've been on… let's see… twelve, I believe."

"That would make this lucky number thirteen."

"I don't believe in superstitions."

"That's what they all say." The daisy-flower woman laughed at this, further disrupting Derek's compulsive tapping. Within a second, however, the pen was once again striking the desk.

_Tap--_

"My name's Sophia, by the way." She held out her hand, and the kid shook it. He was about to tell his own name, Derek could tell, when Vincent rudely cut in.

"Woah, woah, woah, wait a second! Bantanette, you've only been on twelve missions?" Vincent interrupted, stowing his game onto his lap. "You're kidding! I've been on at least twenty!" Sophia kept her calm during and after his taunt.

"And how many went cold while you were under them, anyway, Vincent? Maybe I'm a bit more concerned about thoroughly solving a case before moving on, unlike you." The argument was about the escalate—Derek could see it in Vincent's glare—but another voice interrupted them.

"Oh, my… oh, dear… oh, my goodness…" a small, scrawny old man with curly white hair hidden beneath a blue top hat stumbled out from the back room, his back stooped but eyes wide and alert. He darted a glance over to Derek, who regarded him with a curt nod, then hobbled to the exit.

"Hello, Bartholomew," one of the Siamese twins said to him politely as he hobbled slowly past, his legs and arms trembling.

"How are you today, Agent Jenquin?" the other asked. Bartholomew Jenquin continued to walk past.

"O-oh, I'm fine, to be sure… It's not me you should be worried about, no, no…" With that, he opened the exit door (using telekinesis), and left. Through the smoky windows, Derek could just see him step awkwardly into a taxi before the yellow vehicle drove out of sight. The sun was beginning to set, its orange glow streaking across the sky. Meanwhile, a slight gust of cold autumn air blew in from the door, only to be extinguished by the radiator gathering dust and humming away in the corner of the room.

"Ricotoni, Vincent," Derek called out only a few seconds later, in as official a voice as he could muster. Vincent grinned a shark-like grin, then made his way leisurely up to the desk. Derek, meanwhile, shuffled a pile of papers, their swishing noise taking over the sound of the pen tapping, while had fallen silent. From one of the speakers in the upper corner of the room, quiet elevator music flowed out and spilled all over the articles messily.

"What's up, D?" Vincent asked casually. "Mishi got you workin' the desk again?"

"Unfortunately, yes," Derek responded with a light groan. "And every time I somehow manage to forget just how amazingly boring it is." The sharky grin was back.

"Yeah, but I'll bet the sex makes up for it, right?" Derek allowed his hands to temporarily pause in their shuffling, just long enough for him to shoot Vincent a dark glare, then continue.

"I can _hear_ you…" Sophia and the kid chimed. Vincent chose to ignore them, and Derek contentedly resumed his job.

"Name?" Vincent pressed his palm against the desk, then turned his head to the side, shaking it and sighing. Derek paid the movement no heed, and made a subconscious movement for his pen again, its taps still echoing through his brain.

"Jesus, man, you know that." Derek did know, obviously, but rather ignorantly decided to press the case. With a shadow of a smirk on his face, he pretended to scribble something down on one of the forms with his tapping pen—which was long since out of ink, for the record.

"Jeeee…sus Man. Got it." Vincent leaned back towards him, this time firmly planting both his palms against the desk.

"No, moron. It's Vincent Ricotoni. Would you like my Social Security number as well?" Derek scratched the name down with a fresh pen (pulled telekinetically out from the desk drawer) before answering.

"Actually, yes. It would come in handy."

"Get bent."

"You're not that rich." Vincent laughed at that, a low, surprisingly hearty one.

"Whatever you say. Next question." Derek poured over the questionnaire.

"Age, sex, current location, PSPA, MPA. That's all." Vincent thought about this, then answered.

"Six, transvestite, in my own little world, 100, 100." Derek was about to start writing when he realized the absurdity of these answers. As it was, he paused, then looked back at Vincent with a half-humored expression.

"Okay, how about an answer that isn't completely _idiotic_?"

"Sure, why didn't you say so? Nineteen, male, Kinsview City, 9… ah… 6." Derek snorted loudly, nearly splattering less-than-favorable substances all over the innocent paper.

"Six? What did you do—sleep during all of your missions? Your Mission Point Average is out of _ten_."

"I know it's out of ten, retard. I've only been here for two years now. So if you would kindly jot that down, and I'll be on my way. I can smell it; I've got a big mission ahead."

"You should be a search dog, Vincent, if you keep that up. Surprisingly, you _do_ have a kind of big one ahead. You and two other Psychonauts are going to explore Whispering Rock Summer Camp. Apparently five psychopaths were discovered, still alive, in the insane asylum across Lake Oblongata. Unfortunately, they all vanished under 'mysterious circumstances'. One's presumed dead, but the rest are AWOL. You and the others are going to have to track them down and cure them using Psycho-Portals. Simple enough for you?" Vincent blinked a few times, processing this.

"Uh... yeah. But, say, who am I working with? Last timer's were pretty incompetent." Derek recalled the awkward memory, his mind slowly sinking into it as his hands automatically found the reports he was looking for. In an almost dream-like way, he pulled out a sheaf of information about the particular mission and read it. His eyes slowly swam back and forth, and when he spoke, it was completely calm.

"Well… it says you're working with Agent (_shuffle, shuffle_) Bantanette, whom you've met before, and Agent (_shuffle, pause_) Aquato, a new recruit." Derek put down the paper, then began gathering up the leaflets needed for the mission. His tapping pen fell into its usual spot from his fingers, a tiny sliver of desk slightly lighter than the rest. Meanwhile, Vincent raised his eyebrows in what he secretly hoped was a suave manner.

"You're kidding! I'm going on a mission with Sophia Sunshine? She can't make it through even _one_ without bawling over the _poor little crazies_!" Derek didn't even bother to look up at this, his eyes locked in a silent battle with the paper.

"You're _going_ on the mission with her, Vince. Her psychic empathy, as a matter of fact, could serve to be incredibly handy. And Aquato's got experience, I've heard." Vincent scoffed.

"I could give less of a damn about some new guy. It's Sophia that bugs me." Derek neglected to remind him that Sophia was sitting naught a few feet away, and assumed she just chose to ignore Vincent's insults. The two rarely ever got along on the few opportunities they had to be together, but whether it was out of serious rivalry or childish affection was anyone's guess. Seeing as each had threatened incredibly painful, unmentionable things to happen to anyone who even suggested them being in the same room, most assumed the former.

Vincent cursed under his breath, annoyed, realizing that Derek had zoned off again and wasn't about to change his partner, whether he was focused or not. With an annoyed huff, he made his way to the door, descending further into the many offices of Psychonauts HQ. His angry grumbles continued, echoing down the hall for some time before finally dying off and casting the room into silence, except for the occasional cough or fidget from the other clients and a staticy, elevator version of 'Piano Man'. Sighing tiredly, Derek shifted his head back onto his palm, then reached for his pen. He tapped it again, while watching a taxi slowly drive past the doorway, its tinted black windows catching the last of the sunlight. He had a feeling that today was going to be a very boring day.

He didn't notice that the same taxi had passed the same building twice now, and that its only passenger was dead. His throat had been slit, the blood from it staining the front of his tan suit down to his lap. His head rolled listlessly to one side, its blank, glassy eyes shining an image of the small city back against it. His name had been Bartholomew Jenquin.

* * *

_Oh my gosh that was unbelivably epic. I know, I know, you spend enough time at the DMV as it is and don't need to see anything like it here. BUT! I figure this is an alright way to introduce the characters. Don't worry, things pick up quickly after I get the names and faces down. Just be patient. SERIOUSLY CALM THE FRICKENHEIMER DOWN BEFORE I GET MY CHAINSAW AND RIP YOU TO BLOODY SHREDS. Seriously. _

_Oh, and leave a comment if you want a letter. You'll understand by the next chapter. HINT HINT WINK WINK HINT._


	2. Where Are Your Parents?

**_Psycho Director: _Hello. How are you? Did you have a nice day? I did, too. Well, except for the fact that I got strep throat over the weekend and am using my sick day to update this when I should be at school, learning how to divide _x _by eleven-kagillion and to write better...ish. Instead, I slept until two and am bothering my older brother 'cause my voice sounds like Satan's pet frog. It's awesome. Like, I can either answer the phone when it rings and scare the person on the other side, or go yell at my brother to get it because I don't want to scare the person on the other side. Either way, I win. Oh, and we're out of soda, except for diet but I can only drink that a few times a week because it is bad for me. And, um... my cat's name is Demyx. Which is odd because Demyx-the-cat and Demyx-from-the-game have nothing in common. NOTHING. They're not even the same gender. And... Why are you still reading this? Really. **

**Oh, right, the letters thing I promised. I'm so glad I get to do this. For a few days I was afraid I would never get a comment, and then no one would know what I was talking about (what else is new?). But I got not only ONE but _TWO _comments, which means I can use the power of the letters _TWICE_. So, without further adu (except the time it took you to read that sentence), I bring you... THE RULES.**

**It's simple, really. Because, unlike DA, I cannot answer your comments by reply, what I do is I answer yours in LETTER FORMAT. Like one of those Dear Dolly write-in thingies. Holy crap, you'd better hope you didn't write anything stupid now. Then shame shall be brought to your entire family by anyone who reads Chapter 2, or any chapters that can and will come before it. **

**The letters will be organized by the user writing them, put into the order of earliest comment to latest. Which means that, if you wrote two comments for one chapter (which I encourage you to do so--it makes me feel important to get another comment, and I probably won't notice until just now), they will both get answered in one letter. Don't take it personally--you're just not important enough for another letter. HOLY CRAP THIS IS GETTING LONG. Good thing it's in bold. The smart people just skip over it. That's why they're smart. But the _dedicated _and _cool _people actually read through this. So you're _better _than the smart people. You're _elite_. And... wait, what was I doing? Oh, right, right...**

_Dear TheOptimisticPessimist (There you go! Looking on the bright side of the dark side of life! Why can't other people do that?),_

_NO. You can never have your letter. Ever. Not even if you printed this out and got a patent on it and kept it in a safe in your Mum's house. Its spirit is unchained, it rides free in the wind! You cannot hold it down with your words._

_It's okay if you didn't get it, love. Omnipotency comes with time._

_Razlili? That's a stupid name. I only give my characters well thought-out names, like Tom, Dick, and Harry (Kudos if you understood that joke). So your Razlili can... Oh, OH! You meant like, Raz AND Lili. TOGETHER. As ONE. COUPLE. So, to that, my answer would have to be a firm, solid, in-yer-face... maybe. I don't know, yet. This whole this is actually kind of half-baked right now. But I suppose I can use my magical powers of magic and wonder and hope to throw Lili in. I guess. But she'll have to siddle past all of the mind-numbing action and adventure and suspence and kidnapping plots and murder. But, fear not, for she is old and coveted in wisdom, and ass-kickery. So she might play a role. There's like an 85 chance. And 85 is an epic number._

_LOLOLOLOLOI don't get it. _

_Sincerly,_

_Psycho_

**_Dear Tashilover (seriously, who the fudge is Tashi? DO I WANT TO KNOW???),_**

**_FUN FACT: my Grandpa used to call me Tashi, for reasons I will never know. So this whole experiance is kind of tripping me out a little, like a peyote-fueled journey into the psyche. Whatever a peyote is. I think it's like a plant that is filled with spray-can fumes instead of chlorophil and blooms tiny flowers of lead paint chips and only grows in fields of weed. I heard of it when I Wikipedia'd Psychonauts once. Groovy._**

**_Well, thanks. 8D I'm glad that you like it. And your comment brings an odd sort of soberity to my normally sugar-high replies (these aren't the first letters I've done, believe it or not) with it's fanciful, Spell-checked writing. We should shake hands and go down to the pub for a quick shot like jolly old blokes, and further discus plans for world domination. _**

**_Ah, that Milkman line brings back fond memories. 'What is the purpose of the goggles? Who is the Milkman? Where did you get thyat stopsign? How did you lift that trashcan? Why did you punch that little girl? Why did you set that little girl on fire?' Good times..._**

**_Woah, woah, wait a second! 8O YOU wrote _And a Day?_ Duuuude(tte)! I totally just finished reading chapter 2 about five minutes ago! COINCIDENCE? And, by the way, the story rocks. I wait for thee, elusive chapter 3. _**

**_Sincerly,_**

**_Psycho_**

**Wow, you actually read the whole thing. 8O Good for you. Now, here is your reward... Enjoy, enjoy... Now at least 5 typo-free, or your money back...**

**_

* * *

__The _hour **ticked by in a slow, sleepy haze of pen taps, poor music, and bored shuffling. The clients remaining were rapidly becoming even more bored, as anyone conveniently passing by could easily tell. The twins had given up on the chairs, and were instead sitting calmly on the floor, reading a magazine. Their eyes drifted slowly over the pages, trying to make them last.

The Indian guy—who Derek assumed was Agent Aquato—had fallen asleep in his chair, the hawk perched on its rim and eyeing the other two menacingly. Aquato didn't make any noise as he slept, just sitting there with an odd, serene expression on his face. Derek had the sudden impression that, were a bomb to go off in the building and everyone else would run around in a panic, he'd still be sitting there, watching and petting his bird. Derek also noted that he tended to have a lot of sadomasochistic thoughts when he was bored.

Sophia had sunken far into her chair in a position that went well beyond a slouch, reading a little red book with a black ribbon for a placeholder waving slightly in the breeze from the heater. Her eyes were half-shut and practically oozed out disinterest, flinging it at anyone who caught her gaze. In a way, the normal optimistic light in her eyes had swum back, to be replaced by an emotionless glow. Derek took note that she was probably being influenced by the negative emotions of the other clients, but he couldn't tell for sure. He had only seen Agent Bantanette for a few passing glances in the hallway, and for one mission together some time ago. She seemed too kind and innocent for her job—which often demanded stubbornness and heartlessness—but was still an incredibly talented psychic, which kept her position safe enough.

Finally, the little boy at the end was sitting upside-down in the chair, brushing the tips of his fingers against the worn carpet, back and forth. What was his name again? He hadn't said, due to Vincent's interrupting. Still, he was in the same way as Sophia, only take away the book and add a major case of ADHD. Recipe for disaster, there. Derek whiled away about a minute by wondering what he was doing here, and where his parents were.

_Tap, tap, tap…_

"Gregory, Jack and Philip," he called out after a while, as the clock struck the eighth hour and Vincent strutted out, looking upset. Sophia glanced up at him, then rushed her eyes back to the welcoming pages of the book. The kid, however, kept staring, until he leisurely panned his eyes over and frowned.

"What are you staring at, punk?" he snarled meanly. The kid smirked.

"Nothing much. Just trying to decide if you're a really pretty rat or a really ugly human." In front of them, Derek just had time to slap a hand to his forehead.

"Dammit," he groaned, knowing all too well what would happen if Vincent got angry. Put simply: things burned.

"_What_? Why don't you say that _again_, you little—" Vincent cut off his sentence to cry out as he was grabbed by Derek's telekinetic hand and hoisted a few feet into the air. Derek gave him a few seconds of dangling to tire himself out, then lowered him back to the ground. With an only slightly less bored air, he pointed at Vincent.

"You. Sit down. I could have you assigned to sewer work if I have to take any more of this. And I'd do it, too. I haven't forgotten about Mr. Blanket."

"You said you threw that out when you were five! I was doing you a favor." But he sat down anyway.

"I say a lot of things." He pointed at the kid, who stood stock-still. "You. Shut up. We all know Vince's a douchebag, so we don't need you to emphasize that." The kid snickered and worked his way back to his seat obediently. Temporarily satisfied, Derek went back to tapping, and the minutes melted slowly by.

_Tap, tap, tap…_

"Tyri, Lonan. And Vincent, you're wanted back there." Lonan was the next to go to the back room to receive his mission. Derek was inwardly surprised when the Indian man he had taken for Agent Aquato stood up and mutely made his way to the back room, stopping only to grab one of the leaflets on Derek's desk—the questionnaire one. Derek looked towards the clients. Only Sophia and the boy were left, Vincent having followed Lonan back inside.

_Aquato must be running late, the lucky bastard, _Derek mused to himself. Still, he couldn't help but add a mental _unless…_ to the end of his sentence. He gazed at the boy with the goggles for a few seconds. The latter was currently standing on his head on the chair, his legs propped over the back and arms drooping lazily forward. He caught his eye, then grinned toothily. Derek let his head fall to the desk with a quiet _thunk_.

"I'm losing it…" he thought out loud, chuckling slightly at the idea. He imagined the kid decked out in the customary Psychonauts uniform, the sleeves dangling down to his ankles and pant legs rolled up into bulging puffs as he saluted. This was quickly replaced by an image of himself in a straightjacket inside the GPC, rocking back and forth and humming 'Tiptoe Through the Tulips', pausing only to laugh maniacally. Over-imagination was always Derek's main weak point.

Derek finally concluded that the kid was just waiting for someone to come pick him up, or get back from their job at HQ, or something like that. Something _normal._ With that in mind, he read the next name on the list with a bit more confident air, at the exact moment Lonan came silently drifting out and towards the door.

"Bantanette, Sophia." With an excited giggle, the blue-haired woman jogged up to the desk. Derek only watched her with quiet, but cautious, eyes. He didn't even blink as she took one of the questionnaires, even through the light breeze from it stung slightly at his eyes.

"I'll take that, thank you," Sophia was about to go through the door when she stopped. Grown quiet in thought, she turned slowly back to Derek. "You know, you've got the _creepiest _stare." Derek grinned, finally shutting his eyes.

"Well, I do try." Sophia grinned back, then ran in, slamming the door shut behind her. Silence reigned, except for a few strains of an instrumental version of 'Good Vibrations' over the radio. Once again, then pen was set to tapping, but it found itself pausing every few seconds.

Derek was never so aware of how loud the clock on the wall behind his desk was. He could practically hear the gears churning and creaking as they forced the hands for just one more circle around. The seconds dashed across, the minutes gracefully swept by walking, and the hours crawled on their hands and knees. It was nine o'clock. A minute passed. Derek tried to play a game of tic-tac-toe with telekinesis, but his spectral hand was more shaky and sloppy than if he had tried to write with his right hand (he was left-handed). The kid made himself comfortable by sprawling out sideways across the arms of the hard, plastic chair. Not having much else to do, Derek attempted to strike up a conversation.

"You know visiting hours are in the morning, don't you?" The kid darted his eyes up, taking a few seconds to realize that the pen-tapping receptionist was, in fact, talking to him.

"Oh, no. I'm not here to visit anyone. Even if I was, visiting hours probably would be over by the time I got done _waiting_." Derek had to admit he had a point. Still, they were kind of understaffed at the moment (which would explain why it was so easy for him to take the place at the counter). Things were inevitably pretty slow. Derek persisted anyway.

"And tours aren't until Sunday." The kid brightened at this.

"You guys have _tours_? Cool! Maybe I could get some of the guys at Whispering Rock to see! Except Bobby. Bobby's a jerk." He then caught sight of Derek looking at him weird, and hurried to explain. "Whispering Rock's the summer camp I went to. It's awesome." Derek smiled a little.

"You go to Whispering Rock? Hey, I went there when I was a kid! Didn't know the damn thing was still around."

"Well… I used to go there. For a day. But a _lot_ of stuff happened that day. That's why I'm here." He grinned wider, blushing a little.

"Only a day? Did you get kicked out? Hey, no big deal. I know a guy who had the same thing happen to him. He—"

"No, no, I didn't get kicked out. I graduated."

"In a day?"

"I told you, a lot of stuff happened that day." Derek shook his head slightly, but to himself. Yeah, someone graduated from Whispering Rock in a _day_. Right. The average took about eight _years_. Still, they remained silent for a while. 'Don't Worry Be Happy' took over the radio station and, if Derek closed his eyes, he could almost imagine being in a red-paneled elevator room with a guy in a red and gold suit asking him "what floor?".

_Tap, tap, tap…_

Agent Aquato still hadn't shown up, and only about five minutes were left until his mission debriefing. It didn't bother Derek any, but was just enough for him to take notice. If Aquato still refused to show up, then he wouldn't be able to even start his case. Still, if he didn't, then maybe Derek would be able to go home early.

_Michelle's shift is over by now, _Derek remembered, _But only by a few minutes. Maybe I could catch her on the way out… There's this nice dinner theater a few blocks from here, and she's probably kind of hungry. Yeah, today would be a great day. It's a beautiful night, after all, and I still have some change left over… _He took a moment to let his overactive imagination wander, to a dimly-lit theater, a window seat facing the bright, perfect full moon, a gorgeous black dress, light violin music, maybe… He cast his eyes upward in thought, then, fortunately, caught sight of the clock. He gasped slightly at how much time had passed while he was daydreaming. The minute hand just struck the bottom number six on the clock, making it an even 9:30.

"Aquato, Razputin," he announced in an official voice, calling for someone he knew wasn't there. He felt a little like a schoolteacher calling attendance, and half-expected someone to call out, "He's sick today".

What he did not expect, however, was for there to actually _be_ an answer.

"_Finally_," the kid groaned, standing up from the chair and stretching. He then walked up to the front desk, with Derek only staring. He even dropped his tapping pen, where it rolled dejectedly down the desk and off the edge. Razputin was already reaching for a paper—rather awkwardly, as he could only barely see over the desk, which was level with his nose—by the time Derek was able to get over his surprise.

"You're Razputin Aquato?" he asked, rather incredulously, even though he knew it was true. Razputin glanced up at him rather boredly.

"My reputation precedes me. Yep, that's me. So, do I take one of these papers or something?" Derek had to give that, if nothing else, Razputin had a large vocabulary. Still, there were laws stating that minors weren't allowed to become Psychonauts until they hit eighteen (to avoid third parties being responsible for any injuries they could and would get). Only a scarce few managed to bypass this rule (the youngest being Vincent, having been seventeen when he joined). Even then, the company had to pull a lot of favors, find a lot of loopholes, and tug more than a few strings. Still, maybe Razputin was just short. Some people looked much younger than they actually were, but there wasn't much hope in this case. Derek had to try, anyway.

"I was expecting you'd be… taller. Oh, and yeah, just take one, go through that door, take a right, and third door on the left." Razputin nodded, finally managing to grab one of the papers (Derek had a sneaking suspicion that he was using a levitator ball to reach them).

"Hey, I'm kinda' tall for my age." Derek pressed on.

"And what would that be?" Razputin rubbed the bridge of his nose rather nervously.

"…Ten." Derek coughed into his fist, keeping himself from letting off a noise of disapproval. No doubt Vincent would be disappointed. His record was shattered.

* * *

_And there you go. Raz finally gets past the boring office-level, and can now proceed to the insanely difficult final levels. Except they're not final, more like... penultimate. But whatever, they are still inasanely difficult and hopefully awesome. Remember, I'm still doing the letters-thing. So, COMMENT, human mind-slave. Comment and enjoy the fruitful rewards of shame and extra-long Author's Notes. _

_And, by the way, I lied kind of sort of a little bit. I changed some stuff around, so the epicness doesn't happen until chapter 4. Sorry. You only get semi-epicness in the next chapter. And Oleander. Which is kind of alright, I guess. I need to start giving these chapters clever nicknames..._

_...You're still here? Seriously, go home. The chapter's over. I don't have anything else to offer you but pain and suffering, which I happily dish out 24-7. Seriously. Really... You're not leaving, are you?_

_OH LOOK, A MONKEY IN A SPACESUIT! -Runs-_


	3. The World's Youngest Secret Agent

**_Psycho Director: _Hellooo! Hey, hey, listen, good news! Turns out--prepare yourself--I _don't _actually have strep throat! 8D It's just a really bad sore throat. Not sure why that's particularly _good _news, as they both suck about the same, but I learned that strep makes the back of your throat all pus-filled, and I hate pus, so that's good. Still, now I have, not one, but TWO days off from school! Yay for not learning!**

**I should draw more fanart. LIke, last night, I drew this totally awesome picture of Raz, and I'm coloring it on my computer _right now_.**

**...Don't get excited, I'm not using PhotoShop. Still, the pic is great. Really. I just thought you should know that. When I'm done I'll give you all the link to enjoy. 8D But now, _letters_. And don't worry, I'm being careful. As careful as I can be, ever.**

**By the way, do you know what I learned today? When you take out the cake item in _Psychonauts _and press triangle a bunch of times (this may or may not be a required step, as I always rapidly press triangle when I take out an item, fo' shizzle), Raz says, "I can see why Mr. Pokeylope loves this cake. It looks so moist and delicious." Now, ignoring the fact that at the time I had just pulled it off the table then used the bacon to get back to camp, and therefore Raz logically wouldn't know whether or not Mr. Pokeylope liked it, there's something else. In the _Portal _ending song 'Still Alive', one of the lyrics is, "Anyway, this cake is great. It's so delicious and moist."**

**COINCIDENCE?? I should say not! And there's a cake on the table a few feet from where I'm sitting. It's a day old now ('cause we didn't get a chance to enjoy it yesterday), but it still looks delicious and moist. Darn. Now I can't stop thinking about moist and delicious cake, or 'Still Alive'. I seriously have almost the entire thing memorized. It's just that awesome of a song (plus I have pretty good memory). _This was a triumph... I'm making a note here, 'HUGE SUCCESS'... It's hard to overstate my satisfaction... Aperture Science... Something, something, something... _Oh, right. Letters.**

_Dear Tashilover (WTF? My Grandpa was insulting me the entire time? 8O),_

_I think my feelings are all summed up inbetween those gorgeous parentheses. They are like the poo between the shoe between the ground. Only better. Like poo made of solid bronze._

_Oh, thank you! It's true. Inbetween my splurts of random insanity, the likes of which LSD has yet to conquer in their visual strangeness, I do like to make things seem just a little more realistic. But I beg to differ. It seems that Sasha, Milla, and Ford ALL thought so. That's three to your pitiful none. My arguement is infinate-fold more powerful than yours, because you can fold 0 infinately and still get 0, whereas I got 3. Beat THAT. But still, I WANT TO BELIEVE. And thanks for that one thing about Raz, whatever it was._

_SERIOUSLY?! 8O Hot taquitos burning on a fire! Why? That is, like, the stupidest thing ever. Are they afraid our suagr-fueled conversations will spam up their bandwidth (which I really don't think is possible)? That they will give the illusion that we are better authors than we actually are because we have a bunch of comments? That we will get distracted from the story, which will, in their minds, create a huge black hole that will destroy their delicate system of fanficdom? Or are they afraid to let us talk on the grounds that friendships might develop and then we would create a mutany that would destroy FF down it its roots of evil? I'm going for the last one. We should be friends._

_NO. I will not update soon! What do I look like, a little circus monkey with a typewriter and a red suit and a funky little hat, taking orders from all of the passing ladies and gents that toss peanuts? Don't be silly. My suit is blue._

_Sincerly,_

_Psycho_

**Dear TheOptimisticPessimist (I don't have anything witty to put here),**

**LEAVING!? 8O Do I have to get out the staple gun again? No, wait. The lawnchair has done the trick. With its power, and the combined weight of the grandpa clothes, you have been rendered immobile until the story reaches its epic conclusion. This could take a while. Want some grapes? Or other classy fruits?**

**For the record, I dun like me no tea. Not even if you put enough sugar in it to tranquilize a large animal. But I love me some bacon, so I'm comin'. And I'll bring some burgers and hot dogs, so the bacon isn't lonely. Barbeques are awesome. 8D**

**Oh, and about that. You should know, I have taken it upon myself to disable any and all notifications of favorites or alerts or private messaging on my page. Why? Because the E-mail I'm using here isn't actually mine. It's my mum and dad's, and it wouldn't be very nice of me to flog them down with the massive spools of favorites and alerts and comments I get because I am very popular. Sort of. And, you know, if I knew who Dwyane Johnson and Eddie Izzard were, I'd toally be looking right now. But I don't know, so I'll look to see if I recognize their faces... No, not ringing a bell... Molly? Hello?**

**Sincerly,**

**Psycho**

**_THE END. 8D_**

**_

* * *

_**

Razputin was just about to head through the door when Derek stopped him. 

"Woah, wait a second." Razputin turned around, tapping his foot impatiently. Derek looked at him with a bit of a suspicious look.

"I'm going to need some proof that you're officially an Agent. Something like a note from an official, or something." Razputin cast his eyes upwards and crossed his arms, trying to remember something. Derek waited patiently for his answer.

"Well, I do have this note from Agent Kruller, actually… But it's to someone named 'Michelle'…" Razputin dug around in his pocket for a few seconds, before finally pulling out a white slip. Derek held out his hand, and Razputin reluctantly handed it over. With an interested stare, Derek carefully unfolded it. It read,

_Dear Michelle James,_

_If you're reading this, the odds are that you met Razputin Aquato (Raz for short). I'd like to verify that even though he is a minor, he is, indeed, a Psychonaut. The choice was made by me, Agent Ford Kruller, and seconded by Agents Sasha Nein and Milla Vodello. No need to put your ass in the fire—Truman already knows. However, odds are the head honcho had more __important__ things to do than send out a memo. If that's the case, just kindly send Raz to his office to get the questionnaire signed. It'll help avoid questions from the other agents—and Truman will get any complaints! You're safe!_

_Oh, and one more thing: don't underestimate him. I may be going senile, but I'm not so far up the creek yet. Raz's a child prodigy if there ever was one. Saved the whole damn world just a few days back, not to mention Truman's own sorry ass. Just Google it. I'm pretty sure Vernon wrote down the whole story, and it's floating around on the Internet somewhere._

_By the way, tell Derek that he's a horrible receptionist. He always keeps people waiting. Tell him to just stick to freezing stuff._

_Sincerely,_

_**Ford Kruller**_

Derek frowned at the last paragraph, insulted. Personally, he thought that he made a fine receptionist. So what if he was boring and liked to tap his pen? Receptioning wasn't meant to be interesting. He had more important things to worry about, though, and looked at the paper again.

There could be no doubt that it was official. Ford's psychic aura coated the paper, along with traces of Sasha's and Milla's, covered up only by Raz's strong aura, having been obtained by the letter sitting around in his pocket all day. The letter was, indeed, from Ford, and had been backed up by Sasha and Milla.

For a second, Derek continued to let himself be doubtful. Ford was pretty much crazy after that incident, as everyone knew. But Sasha and Milla were well respected Psychonauts, strong and skilled. They wouldn't have agreed to this if it was just Kruller insanely musing. Sasha would have used cold logic to keep Raz out of a uniform until he hit eighteen (or at least seventeen), and Milla would have been overprotective as always. So the conclusions that Derek could finally come to were,

A. The massive amount of psitanium at Whispering Rock had cracked the two agents like soft-boiled eggs

B. They were being hypnotized/blackmailed/threatened

C. They felt so bad for crazy Kruller that they were inclined to 'grant his wish', which, for some reason, was to let at least one child join the Psychonauts

D. Raz was _wickedly_, and he did mean_ wickedly_, talented

E. They _really_ didn't like Raz and were secretly hoping he'd die.

Derek analyzed these in his head while Raz just stood there, waiting impatiently but duty-bound not to leave. Well, A would make sense, sort of, but then the other Psychonauts would have noticed, as the two were mentally connected to many of the members. B was likely, but, once again, they would notice (Derek still made a mental note to watch out for that one). C was just plain improbable, as Sasha rarely felt sorry for anyone, Milla was actually pretty smart, and Kruller, as far as he knew, was smart enough to obey the age law when he was 'normal', and almost completely anti-psychic anyway when he wasn't. "Let them psychics bend their spoons all they want, I'm not carin' a bit," he told Derek once. E wasn't going to happen, as it took a lot to make Milla hate _anyone_, especially a minor, and Sasha and Ford weren't the type to hold grudges. That left D, which was still dubious, to say the least.

"I'm going to be _late_," Raz whined after a minute or so. Derek straightened up, blinked a few times, then looked at him as if just noticing he was there. With a slight nod, Derek jerked his thumb back towards the door.

"Alright, get your as… self to President Zanotto's office, then straight to debriefing. Second door to the right." Raz saluted over-dramatically.

"Yes, _sir_!" And with that, he was off, leaving only a slight resulting breeze and some elevator music.

* * *

Vincent Ricotoni and Sophia Bantanette were standing around the mission debriefing room, bored. The room was done up very much like a professional meeting place from movies, with grey tile floor, blue walls, and a blue oval-shaped table (with the Psychonauts symbol painted on its face) being the only furniture besides six chairs and a large projector screen near the front. Sophia was resting her head on her hands against the table, settled on one of the matching blue chairs, while Vincent was leaned back, his feet propped against said table. Each was looking at the third—and only other—person in the room: a short man with tanned skin, big teeth, a big moustache, and a soldier-like outfit. His name was Morceau Oleander.

"So, where's Aquato?" Vincent blurted out, after a few seconds of awkward silence. Oleander turned to him, his battle-worn face displaying its usual scowl. However, Vincent and Sophia, having been with Oleander many times before, could tell he was in his 'reasonably content' mood. This was further emphasized by his casual shrug.

"James probably sent him down to Zanotto's to get an official slip. He may need it. He's the first minor Agent we've had here since you." Vincent perked up at this.

"Really? Cool. About time someone was skilled enough to join early. I was starting to feel like no one would ever match me. So, how old is he? Seventeen? Sixteen?" Oleander smirked a little at this, obviously knowing an inside joke the other two Agents didn't.

"About the same as Sophia's shoe size." Sophia recoiled a little at this.

"H-hey! I'm at a size eleven, I'll have you know! I'm no clown." Oleander blinked, surprised.

"Hmm, I could have sworn you were still—" He was cut off, however, by the doorknob rattling. With a light creak, it curved inwards. Accompanied by the sound of rustling paper and slightly squeaky shoes, Agent Aquato stepped into the room.

"Sorry I'm kinda' late, I had to fill out some paperwork. Hope I didn't miss too much. I'll have to catch up later." He looked up, finally spotting Oleander. His face brightened like a July Christmas tree.

"Hey, Coach! I didn't know _you_ taught this stuff! Cool!" Sophia and Vincent only stared at the new agent, all four feet, nine inches of him. His eyes panned over to them, their stunned faces reflected in his bright red goggles, and he smiled welcomingly. As they stared, and Oleander waited rather excitedly for their reaction, Raz made his way, blissfully oblivious to the rising tension, to his seat. Sure, he knew his presence would make the two agents confused, and maybe uncomfortable, but figured that if Mr. Kruller was fine with it, then, in time, they would be, too.

He settled into the squishy cushions of one of the chairs, directly between Sophia and Vincent (the two always sat at least one chair apart whenever possible). A few tense seconds followed, during which a strange silence blanketed them all. Even Raz couldn't block out the feeling of major discomfort, but chose not to act on it. Finally, Vincent broke.

"What the _fucking hell_, Oleander?" All three other agents winced at his profanity.

"_Vincent_," Sophia hissed under her breath. Raz frowned.

"Watch the language, please, there are _children_ present." Vincent tightened his hand into a slight fist, determined to keep his cool in case it was a practical joke and people were watching. The newfound paranoia did not become him, however.

"That's exactly my point! Nice prank, Oly, but the fun's over. We really don't need a human sacrifice on our team."

"_Vincent_!" Sophia hissed louder.

"Human _what_?" Raz growled. Vincent smirked.

"You heard me. Scared to die, kid? This place is way too tough for a kid. People die here—_often_. Go home for a few years, and then come back for the real thing. Don't worry—you can keep whatever Oly bribed you with to get you to come here. I'm not interesting in candy, comic books, or cheap porn magazines." Sophia and Raz both looked like they were about to explode from anger. Oleander, meanwhile, looked the same, but his red face and bit lip were from holding in his laughter.

"Shut _up_, Vincent," Sophia warned. Raz, however, seemed to have calmed down a little, and retained a cynical, confident air.

"And how do you know that it's a prank? How do you know that I'm not _really_ Agent Razputin Aquato?" Granted, Vincent was a little unnerved that Raz knew the full name, but blamed it on previous information.

"How old are you, kid? Eleven?" Raz balked a little at this, but still held his ground ferociously.

"I'm _going_ to be eleven in January! I'm not a _baby_, you root-bag!" A short silence followed this. Even Oleander managed to suppress his laughter, and looked on curiously.

"…Root-bag?" Vincent asked slowly, raising an eyebrow. "What the hell's a root-bag?" Sophia, however, had had enough at this. With an angry huff, she kicked her chair back and forced her way to her feet, the palms of her hands slamming against the tabletop. Her normally serene blue eyes were alight with anger, and all three other agents had to stare.

"He means you're a douchebag, Vincent, and he's perfectly _right_!" she translated, emphasizing the word 'right' by slamming her chair back against the side of the table. "You are, single-handedly, the most _selfish_—" her fist slammed against her mission folder, which was lying on the table "—_simple-minded_—" she tore her folder from the table, knocking over a Dixie cup of water and spilling it all over (which went unnoticed by all) "—_egotistical_—" she stomped closer to Vincent, blatantly ignoring a stunned Raz "—_heartless ignoramus _I've _ever_ had the displeasure to meet, and I wish you were _dead_!"

…Silence, aside from Sophia's heavy breathing and a bit of nervous shuffling.

"So… uh…" Raz drawled awkwardly, running his finger along the edge of one of the non-overturned Dixie cups. "Do you feel better now that you let that out?" Sophia glanced over at him, who stared back blankly, waiting for an answer. She then glanced down at the sitting Vincent, who looked at least a little visibly shaken. Oleander, finally, had just decided to stay near the front of the room, completely still and quiet. After a few more seconds to regain her breath, she responded rather calmly, pacifistic once more.

"Yeah, I'm good."

* * *

_And that's the end. Wasn't that great? Great enough for a comment, eh? What do you say? Please?_

_NEXT CHAPTER: The gang finally leaves HQ for their first assignment! But things are not always as cut-and-dry as they seem in the shadows of Thorny Towers insane asylum. Old faces make an appearance, but will it be enough when someone close is working against them, especially when the youngest Psychonaut ever goes missing? And why is there an advertisement for it now? YOU DON'T WANT TO MISS IT!_


	4. Escaping Tedium

**_Psycho Director: _Yep, still sick. Just in case you were wondering. I got a headache, sinus pressure, shivers, runny nose, coughing, sore throat, sore legs... Pretty much everything. But it's Saturday, which means I can (and did) nap pretty much the whole day. Yay... Damn. I can't even bring happiness and joy to all in my writing. Being sick _sucks_. I'll even put an unhappy emote here, look:-(. That's the sheer level of suckage being sick is.**

**In more optimistic news, we're finally bringing in some action to this chapter! Woo! That's right, we're _moving on_. To Alaska. I mean, Thorny Towers (which is in Alaska). So let's hurry up and go... to letters. I like letters.**

_Dear Kamiringo (That's a type of AIDS that by now you are already infected with and can only be cured by passing this message on to 20 other people),_

_Heck YES. Shadow reader no more! Pound it. -Pounds fist- Yeah. Reviews rule._

_Four if you count the fact that I mentioned cake, which is awesome in and of itself. Especially if it's chocolate, or vanilla with these little strawberry streaks and whipped cream and cut into squares like the ones they serve in the cafeteria. Aw, darn, I'm drooling all over my keyboard again. And it's moving fast ENOUGH, I tell you. Fast like the Earth. It's just so mind-bendingly so that you don't notice. Obviously._

_Geez. How many times to I have to tell you dudes? I DON'T UPDATE. Ever. Even what you're reading right now is a lie, that your brain implanted inside you while you slept to keep you from losing your mind from my refusal to update. It's all of the epicness you wish you had for the sequal you really want but might not be. But you'd better hurry up and snap out of it, 'cause your mom wants you to come in for dinner. You're having chicken wings and cake._

_Sincerly,_

_Psycho_

**_Dear TheOptimisticPessimist (I can't help but feel that I've heard this name somewhere before...),_**

**_Why, yes! There are oranges, too, or so I've read. They're classy. Classy like a FOX. And yes, I am always concerned about bacon-tops. They're an endangered species that must be loved and cared for until they are cooked enough to be suddenly devoured. Like chickens... Mm..._**

**_Pfft... tea... xD_**

**_8D -Blank stare- I like rocks... Especially mica. But not sandstone. I know they're plotting against me, ALL OF THEM ARE. They're always after me Lucky Charms. But when it comes to dudes in drag, I'd have to save my favorite as Kevin Last-name-escapes-me from _Make Me a Supermodel. _He's got this beard that's just like... like... the Beard King of Legend. It's the kind of beard that could go on _The Tonight Show _to talk about being an omnipotent beard. It's strong enough to lift a building if it had arms, and powerful enough to power a thousand _Psychonauts _sequals and then eat a Hungry Man TV dinner. It's the beard of every beard's, moustashe, and toupe's dreams. Seriously. But then he got voted off of _Make Me a Supermodel, _so I can't see the beard every night anymore. Still, it will live on, in our hearts and in our facial hair. _**

**_Plot? What is this 'plot' you speak of? I know no 'plot'! I usually just say a quick prayer, then throw a rabid, diseased, starving monkey onto my laptop, run out of the room, slam the door, and hope for the best. Usually it turns out okay. No one's died yet, but one dude got thrown into a coma. I warned him not to open the door, so it's his own fault._**

**_Mm-hmm. He's kind of tall in the game, really (I know because I compared him to a few other campers in the game when I was bored). Still, I couldn't be sure, so I marched over to the wall where the measurements from days of yore are, glaced at mine when I was 10-11, then wrote it down. I, too, am tall. I'm like, 5'3". Which is tall. Or maybe THE WORLD IS SHORT. We will never know... Now all I need to do is stop looking younger than I am (damn you, baby fat) and I can buy drinks for all! World, consider yourself warned._**

**_BURNING BACON!? -Runs over, fire extiguisher in hand- I will save you, bringer of fat and joy! Weeeooohweeeooohweeeoooh! Do not fret, random celebrities! (Will Bruce Willis and Ronald Reagan and Keira Knightly and Jack Black and Adam West and Jhonen Vasquez and Richard Horvitz and Ansem be there, too? 'Cause I would totally save their lives, for Earth, because it has Sparta.) _**

**_Sincerly,_**

**_Psycho_**

_Dear Tashilover (you enjoy being that, because you're the only one who will),_

_Wow. And look, I'm doing it again! 8D Life is GOOD! You are used to not being listened to, aren't you?_

_Yay and aww! But it's cool. Everyone has someone they don't like. In my case, it's the Earth. I'm sorry to say, but Sophia will still spaz a little bit later in the story. I normally don't like panikers (especially in movies, during life-or-death situations. Like those two ladies in _The Towering Inferno_... Shudder...), but this time it's not to yell at people. It's aboooot Raz, and because she's really over-protective (and that's all I'm saying). For some reason, the mental image of Raz being babied around because of his incredible youth, then later kicking some big-time ass and amazing everyone, entertains me so. It gives me a warm feeling inside similar to that of the moment you realise you're going to puke. Only this time it's kind of a good feeling. Like if you're about to puke up a solid bar of gold or a rare diamond or the nickel you dropped behind the couch and lost. Sort of._

_I'll say. A long list of replies really bugs me, like a lot. Especially if they're done in letter format and put right before a chapter and... Oh. Nevermind, then._

_Yes, but I am a deviant of ART. A **Shadow Warrior **named **Nami**. A **Shadow-Warrior-Nami **who is a **DeviantART**ist. W**ha**t subl**i**mina**l** **me**ssage?_

_Sincerly,_

_Psycho_

**And that is all. Good night, America and other such silly continents.**

**_

* * *

__When _the **room began to return to normalcy, Oleander took it as the best opportunity he could get to explain about Raz. He described the events of Whispering Rock in as congested a term as he could (while still not leaving anything important out) and, after a while, Sophia and Vincent gradually calmed down and rather grudgingly accepted the fact that Raz was, indeed, a Psychonaut. This called for a total of half an hour of often-trivial questions ("So you say Mr. Pokeylope could talk…?" "Are you sure about that?" "Why is Vernon so obsessed with stories?" "You're telling me that all you needed to do was pick some flowers, and they'd think you were a widow?"). It also called for an hour's worth of psychic demonstrations, one convenient slideshow, and more than a few cups of coffee on everyone's part (except Raz, but he eagerly made up for it in soda).

By the time the trio was debriefed on their mission and all four were on their way out the door, it was well past ten at night. Not that they minded—each of them was too excited to be tired. The only person who offered a complaint was the receptionist, Derek Westfield, who muttered something incoherent about a café and the true receptionist, Michelle James.

Oleander pointed out to him that, if he had kept his post doing fieldwork, he would have been let off many hours ago.

Derek responded by making a sign with his hands that resulted in Sophia gasping and forcing her hand over Raz's eyes, Vincent holding a very angry Oleander back while trying to aim at Derek with his psyblast, and a few things in the room lighting on fire and being frozen. All of this happened very fast.

In the end, the group just agreed that they were clearly very tired and angry and should get to the jet—which was conveniently located in the parking lot—as soon as possible. That is, until Vincent made a sudden crack involving Raz and naps in one run-on sentence. Things happened.

By the time the beaten, bloody, and slightly smoking trio (Oleander had to stay behind for more debriefing cases) made it to the jet safely, the clock struck eleven. Its chiming was chorused by the repetitive, annoying as hell taps of a pen.

* * *

The room was dark. Very much so, actually, with just enough light to ironically cast most everything into shadows. The only glow came from a dusty old crystal ball on a small, red velvet stand, which pulsed slightly. This was currently being watched over by a female figure dressed in a dark cloak, though it was hard to tell if the cloak was really light or dark, being that the room was so dim.

"They're coming," the figure muttered in a cool, low voice—the kind of voice you'd expect a woman in her position just then, that position being shrouded in darkness, talking about things no one except her and her associates can understand until after an epic revelation. However, she didn't need to worry about who heard her, as only her two associates were in the room with her. As she spoke, they stepped a little closer to the light, bringing their profiles into view.

One was a rather tall man, with an oddly deformed arm, a huge hat/afro, and an apron. The other was an incredibly short man, with dull, flat hair and his arms crossed. They both glanced over at the figure in the crystal ball, then laughed under their breaths.

The crystal ball reflected an image, not of them, but of three others. Contrasting sharply with the mysterious, yet somehow sinister expressions of the first three, the second three looked remarkably nonchalant. They clearly weren't aware of their being watched, or simply couldn't bring themselves to care.

"Ah, lovely! Their brains all look simply delicious! Especially that one right there." The figure with the big hat pointed with his deformed hand at one of the figures reflected, an Italian man with slightly greasy, spiky black hair. "He's quite a fighter, I'm sure."

"You can't even bloody well see their minds. For all you know, they could just be a ship of fools," the short figure pointed out in a cynical voice. The other two chose to ignore him, as he was often pessimistic. Instead, the woman shrugged slightly, raising her shoulders up and back down.

"Take him, if you want, and that girl. They're just extra details." Her voice darkened, with a razor-sharp edge of loathing. "But the boy is mine." It couldn't be seen in the darkness, but the short figure raised an eyebrow skeptically.

"Pardon? Don't tell me you work _that_ way. He looks only ten, for God's sake." If it were possible, the woman's voice grew even sharper, more menacing. It was enough to make the other two back off a few good steps, for the crystal ball to unintentionally start floating on its stand, and for the room's temperature to increase a slightly unnerving number of degrees.

"_No_, you mindless twit. He's one of the ones who've caused our suffering, and he must be the one to end it. Only then will the curse be broken." The short figure brushed off her speech, as always.

"Whatever you say, Ms. Aquato."

* * *

The full moon shone down brightly that night, its light sifting down from the charred and twisted remains of the former asylum and into yellowish geometric shapes on the rocky ground. A few crows perched haphazardly on the broken remains, pecking disdainfully at the hard earth and cawing to each other.

Only a twisted skeleton of the once great and fearful Thorny Tower remained, spiraling in a jerky, spastic path upwards. Its railings dropped away slowly as it ascended, and twisted towards themselves like dead, black, metal flowers. Only one rail remained at the summit, which very nearly managed to stretch as high as it once had before surrendering opportunely against the backdrop of the moon and slightly cloudy sky.

It was this last rail that caught the eye of the three audacious Psychonauts, who were crouched defensively behind a great heap of debris. They couldn't help but stare, as one, at the building's odd majesty, even after death.

"This place must have been something to see while it was still standing," Vincent mused aloud.

"It was," Raz agreed. As per usual, Vincent struck at the opportunity to start an argument.

"And how would you know, root-bag?" Raz mentally cursed at the insulting use of his mispronunciation, but otherwise continued on.

"Weren't you paying attention during story time? I used to go to the camp just across the lake." Vincent had to grudgingly admit that he had a point, but nonetheless didn't bother to say so. Instead, he just "humph"ed, then went back to staring at the building. After a few seconds, Sophia spoke up again.

"So, we're looking for five people, here. Caligosto Loboto, Crispin Whytehead, Fred Bonaparte, Gloria VonGouten, and Boyd Cooper. That is, if they're still alive, which is doubtful.

"Still, if they are, we'll never find them if we stick together. We should split up, cover more ground. Razputin and I'll take the courtyard, and you can cover the grounds, Vincent." Vincent frowned.

"First off, why am I the only one going it alone? And second… how the hell can you tell the difference from the courtyard and the grounds?" Sophia smiled rather sardonically.

"What's the matter? Scared to travel around by yourself? The courtyard is like the sophisticated introduction to the grounds. You'll be basically patrolling the area, while we're the ones who are going straight to the center. So it doesn't require much bravery, don't worry." Vincent, though, was adamant.

"No way. I can handle anything this dump throws at me. All we're looking for are a bunch of babbling, normal crazies, anyway. There's nothing they have that can actually harm us. Let Raz patrol—I'm _eager_ for some ass-kicking." Sophia didn't like this plan—anyone could see it in her expression. His plan contained two things she obdurately didn't like: being close to Vincent (even if it wouldn't really be close) and leaving Raz alone in such a scary-looking place (in this manner, she was oddly reminiscent of Milla's overprotectiveness).

"I'm _not _letting Razputin run around unsupervised here! For God's sake, it's an insane asylum infested with escaped psychopaths! And I can only shudder at what a horrible influence _you'd_ be." Vincent shrugged this off with a casual air.

"Jesus, Sophia, he's a full-fledged Psychonaut. He doesn't fucking well need someone to hold his hand. Besides, you said so yourself. The center's where all of the crazies are likely to be. Let him get some air. Right, Raz?" Vincent waited, fully expecting an excited (even if slightly manipulated) cry of agreement… But there was nothing. Confused, Vincent tried again, glancing back beside him. "…Raz? Kid?"

There was no one there. Sophia gasped.

* * *

_Stupid guys… How can _they_ be Psychonauts? I work my butt off for this job, and all I get are two guys who just argue with each other all the time and a chance to go on a mission—which I already did! Everyone's already cured… well, except Loboto, but he's dead. And Crispin… what happened to him, anyway? Aw, who cares. He's not even crazy. He's just kind of a jerk. A blind jerk. A mean old blind bat of a jerk. Like Agent Ricotoni. He's such a jerk… _Raz continued to mentally complain as he hopped over the rubble of the tower, casting off the invisibility that he had used to sneak past Vincent and Sophia.

It wasn't like he had a choice, really. He was so incredibly tired of those two's constant whining about something or other. Agent Bantanette had been nice enough, but she seemed to have a personal vendetta against Agent Ricotoni—one that Raz wanted no part of. So, after being practically driven crazy himself by their arguments, he sneaked off.

Doubtless they'd be worried (well, Sophia would), but they'd get over it. He'd meet up with them again once they'd calmed down. Maybe once they had come to their senses, he could explain that the mission was over and done with, and they could all go home. On the other hand, however, they would probably be _really mad_ at him once he returned for running off in the first place. Still, he'd have to risk that. He just couldn't take another minute of their squabbling.

Raz's whining calmed down a little as he scaled the walls of the grounds, bouncing from rocky platform to rocky platform. He had no clue where he was going, specifically, so he decided to take a peak into Edgar's old room. There was something about the deco-style room, with its neon-colored paintings strewn about, which made him feel relaxed.

_Weird, seeing as I spent almost all the time there being chased by El Odio, _Raz remembered rather fondly.

He jumped onto the copper wire leading to Edgar's room, adjusting his center of balance to just below it. Using this method—taught to him when he was five—he jogged easily across the wire. It squeaked strangely against his shoes, bouncing up and down a little. For a second Raz feared it would break, but it held taunt as he made his way leisurely across. He effortlessly stepped from the wire to the front platform, oddly eager to just sit and stare at the beautiful works of art.

He froze, however, when he heard a voice, _in the room_. A _familiar _voice.

"Ah, I remember this one. Why I had such an urge to paint cats at the time, I will never know. This one is definitely for the gallery. It's one of my best, if I should say so myself." Curious, Raz leaned his head into the room, and called out a single name.

"Edgar?"

* * *

_END. Reviewing time is now, yes? -Puppy-dog eyes of DOOM-_


	5. At Least Aunt Jemima Made Good Pancakes

**_Psycho Director: _Hello, everyone! Are you feeling good? Guess what--SO AM I. 8D I woke up this morning, and my sickness that's been happening over the past few days was just _gone._ It's crazy. Today was definately the best day ever from the moment I woke up until the moment I had to roll out of bed (it's cold out), making it the best three hours of my life. I daydreamed about this fic.**

**You know, I wasn't going to get all excited for _Brutal Legend_, the latest game out from Double Fine, at first, because it seemed to me they were wasting moments that could be spent on a _Psychonauts _sequal to make a rip-off of _Guitar Hero_. Then I looked a bit more into it, caught up on the news, visited their website (which involved faking an age--if I can handle _Bioshock_, I can handle their violent little thingy, dammit), and watched the 2 Headed Baby's long locks of rock star hair they added in flow dynamically in the imaginary wind. Even after that, it was only when I carelessly left my speakers on and went to check my DeviantART messages that it latched onto me, like an alien parasite that smacks against your face and lays eggs in your stomach. A sudden rip of guitar made me jump in my seat, click over to the page, and be amazed. A sweet seranade of guitar solo bled out of my speakers and into my unexpectant ears, which slowly panned off into an amazing song I haven't heard the likes of since I borrowed my brother's 'Best of the 80's' CD and downloaded it discreetly onto my MP3 player (WHICH YOU WISH YOU HAD) when he was blinking. Only the music was done up so well, that it could somehow still be hard-core metal, yet _modern_. As if that didn't sell me, I later learned you could drive cars in the game and run over baby carrages. And knowing Tim Schafer (which I don't, actually. I'm probably not even spelling his name right), he'll make it all seem _funny_. **

**My only regret is that the quirky and lovable crew from _Psychonauts _can't join in the fun. But, who knows? They'll probably make a cameo. Double Fine is not bound by such petty things as time, space, and logic. The game takes place in the 'Age of Metal', which doesn't even exist. But, then again, I wasn't aware that Romans were real until I got to learn about them in World History. YAY FOR LEARNING!**

**Now, to more important matters.**

_Dear Tashilover (hello again! 8D),_

_Oh, that's too bad. I wish I could say I cared, but ever since I found out you were a middle child, I've been too busy ignoring you. 8(_

_Why thanks! I was hoping no one would. I had a different plot idea in mind, but it's been done 11,005,678 times before (even though there are only 200 _Psychonauts _fanfictions here). Then I hit an epiphany, and things kept going up. But remember, she doesn't have to be a mommy. The mysterious shadowy figure with crossed arms (who is very mysterious) said 'ms.', which is an abbriviation for 'miss'. Which means she's single (got that, male readers? -HINTHINTWINK-), and most of us know that Raz has a daddy. Still, do not fret. Many relatives share the same last name. She could be a sister, or an aunt, or a **cousin**, or a grandma, or a second step-cousin twice removed on his father's mother's brother's side, or a long-lost evil twin, or a siamese twin (connected by a very long, very thin string of tissue), a secret agent from the government who adopted his last name and raised it as her own, a G-Man ("I am an Aquato. This is my floatation device. I wear it because I am cursed to drown whenever I step in water. I am very proud of my relative who has become a Psychonaut, even though we only meet at the Annual Family Picnic once a year. I am very good at acrobatics. I do not like water. Family blood is important. I work in the shadows, though it is not because I am a vampire. I live in the circus...), etc. And that is all._

_Sincerly,_

_Psycho_

**Dear TheOptimisticPessimist (Just how tall ARE you?),**

**Oh, I remember that part now. That was me. Then I bolted awake in a cold sweat, still screaming bloody murder, looked around frantically, then reminded myself that it was just a bad nightmare... then rolled over and went back to sleep.**

**Unless you're a woman, and even then, it's only if it's something other than a unibrow. Those things are bloody AWESOME.**

**Just a wee bit, now. It's true, my monkey did something amazingly right. As a reward, I threw in my Biology teacher for it to messily devour, then whipped it and demanded it get back to work. Oh, that silly, lovable monkey. BBC? Burnt... Bacon... Channel? OH MY GAWD, THE _BACON_! -Runs back to the barbeque with the fire extinguisher- I forgot to do this from last chapter! Forgive me, bacon! -Sprays it out- Phew! And once again, the world is made just a little more delicious. My works is done here.**

**Makes you wonder how the towelettes got moist, aye? xD Bacons have such cute tops, like supermodels you can eat. Yum.**

**Oh, SCHNIDER. What about all of the other short people in the world, like... like midgets? And the Chinese? And all of those friends you aforementioned? A-and... NO, I DUN WANNA' BE STEPPED ON BY YOUR JOLLY BOOTS O' DOOM! -Runs away frantically, whistling the ZIM Santa Song- For those of you who don't know, 'The Santa Song' goes a little something like this:**

**_"Bow down... bow down... before the power of Santa! Or be crushed... be crushed... byyy... his jolly boots o' DOOM!" x2_**

**In other news: NO, RONALD! Who will run for office with a chimp now!? WHO!? And who else will sample my grease punch!? But I wouldn't worry about dibs. I am practicing abstinence like a good citizen. For now, I will just undress everyone with my eyes. Yes, EVERYONE (except you). Men, women, children, ugly people, imaginary people, hermaphordites, transsexuals, inanimate objects, and the bacon with their cute tops. And then I will wonder why I am doing this, and finally blame it on the punch. Hey, did you know that 'The Optimistic Pessimist' can be acronymed into 'TOP'? Like bacon? Strange...**

**(I sure do wish I managed to sit through all of _300, _now)...**

**Random Dude: "All Molly requires is this. A simple offering of Sugar Bowl and Bathtub. A token offering of submission to the will of fanfictioning."**

**Me: "Sugar Bowl and _Psychonauts._ You'll find plenty of both down unda'."**

**Random Dude: "This is _blasphemy_, Psycho. This is _madness_!"**

**Me: "...Madness?"**

**(Here it comes... Oh boy, oh boy...)**

**Me: THIS...**

**IS...**

**_NOT ACTUALLY SPARTAAAAAAAAA!!!_** **8O**

**-Explosions-**

**Sincerly,**

**Psycho**

_Dear Nintendo Nut1 (Who is really mad at the original Nintendo Nut),_

_Yes, yes it is. Even though by the time you read this, three chapers will have come and gone between your comment and my reply. Holy crap, indeed._

_I love you, too, random stranger whom I don't really know in real life and probably never will. And I'm glad someone can compare me to a writer who can actually make money with what they create most of the time (I read 'The Supernaturalist' and am PROUD OF IT). Makes me feel that I can become famous and world-renouned after all. Take THAT, you dirty hobo who lives under the bridge! I knew better than to rent out a box to live in from thee! So, thank you._

_And yes. So we shall... Wow, that didn't take long. WHO WANTS POPCORN!?_

_Thanks for the comment, anyway! Now, go! Read what you waited for for so long! No, that is not a typo._

_Sincerly,_

_Psycho_

**And now, where was I? Oh, yeah. Fanfictioning. Yaaay.

* * *

****_

* * *

__"Razputin! _Razputin, **please answer me if you can! Please! _Raz_!" Sophia cupped her hands to her mouth, yelling up to the starry night sky. Her voice echoed back across the gray and blue plain, answerless. Vincent was helping her look for the missing agent, but he wasn't exactly enthused. His heart wasn't in it. Still, he slowly peered behind a fallen chuck of plaster, then turned to Sophia. When she looked back at him, he was rather surprised to discover that she was near tears. 

"Hey, Soph—" he began, in a mumbling voice that could almost be considered comforting, when she cut him off. It wasn't out of rudeness—she just hadn't heard him.

"Oh, Vince, I'm so worried! It's all my fault! I picked a stupid argument with you for absolutely no reason, and we got so fed up that neither of us bothered to watch him! There are insane people here, you understand? He doesn't know that!" Vincent found this to be a great time to correct her. He held out his hands, which were entirely black against the light of the moon.

"He knows just as much as we do, he was with us during the debriefing—" Sophia cut him off again, sounding incredibly stressed.

"He knows, of course he knows, but he doesn't _know_! He's just a little boy, he doesn't _understand_! They're insane, they're out there, they might be really angry… Oh, what if they have _guns_? He… he could already be dead by now, and… We're not trying hard enough! We have to search harder! _Raz_!" Vincent attempted to be the voice of reason at this point, which was an oddity in and of itself. He stood in the center of the courtyard, still, as Sophia continued leaving no stone unturned. When he spoke, it was to the black silhouette of her back, as she tried to lift a heavy chunk of wall with telekinesis some distance away.

"Look, he's ten years old—and psychic. He's not completely hopeless." He couldn't help muttering under his breath, "just a cocky, arrogant, annoying brat, is all." At this, Sophia suddenly gasped, jerking up from her half-crouched position in half a second, as if she had been yanked up by a string. Vincent stumbled back a little, cursing, believing that she was upset at what he had muttered.

"Oh my God… Vincent…" she muttered in a dream-like way. Curious, Vincent stared at her. She slowly turned to face him, horror at a sudden idea reflecting in her eyes.

"W-what if… What if he _didn't _just run off? Vincent… _what if he was kidnapped_?" Vincent blinked at this sudden premonition, his startled state showing through his expression. For a second, he humored the idea, but he just as soon cast it aside.

"That's insane. If he had, we would have heard him. Plus, you can feel the negative aura the crazies would give off. That's why you're _on_ this mission, remember?"

"I-I guess, but… But what if it happened _after _he ran away? They, they could be murderers, or torturers, or child molesters, or firestarters… Oh my God… I—"

"_Sophia_! Get a grip! You're the brightest one in this group, so just look at it logically. Didn't you read the reports? These are the most normal crazies you'll ever meet. Fred just thinks he's Napoleon. Gloria believes she's always onstage—"

"She has bipolar disorder, she could…"

"…Maybe bitchslap him, if he did something really stupid. Seriously, she's a ninety-pound old woman. The only thing terrifying about her is her hairdo.

"Boyd just prattles on about a conspiracy, really. He doesn't even burn things anymore—which is kind of disappointing. Edgar's a guy who's only weapon is a paintbrush. Crispin's just a half-blind guy who's too damn lazy to do anything. You could walk up and punch him and he'd just say 'whatever' **(1)**. Nobody in this joint is dangerous. Well, except Caligosto **(2)**, but he's dead. So _relax_. **(3)**" Sophia continued to seem uncertain, doubtful.

"You really think—" Vincent scoffed.

"Trust me, Soph. This place is as safe as an abandoned insane asylum can get. He'll be fine. Now, let's go look for him so I can kick his ass for making up play hide and seek instead of doing our job. I'll take the grounds, and you take this place. Later." And with that, he walked off.

* * *

**(1) This is a TRUE FACT. Tried and tested by me. 8D**

**(2) AKA Dr. Loboto. I'll bet you didn't know that.**

**(3) Aren't these numbers annoying?

* * *

**"Ah, Razputin! It's good to see you in high spirits again. Do come in," Edgar called out in his thick accent. Confused, Raz complied, stepping through the broken awning and into the room. 

It had changed since last time he had been there, he noticed. The edges of the walls were charred and black, along with almost the entire floor (especially in some puddle-like areas that smelled like turpentine and acetone). The table and easel were gone—probably burned up in the fire. However, they had been replaced by a large stack of dufflebags, suitcases, and a steamer trunk. The charred walls were lined with black velvet paintings, which were slightly different from the ones Raz had seen the first time he'd been there.

"Oh, hey Raz. Listen, could you put this in one of the bags for me?" Raz was surprised to hear a new voice, a slightly nasally, American one. He turned to the side, only to see Edgar and Fred, in the flesh, handling some of the paintings. With a blank look on his face, he wordlessly took the painting handed to him by Fred. Then, peering over the wooden rim of it, he fired his first question.

"What are you guys doing here?" he asked, blunt as always. "And how did all of these paintings not get burned?" Edgar smiled warmly at him, then casually tilted one of the larger paintings leaning against the wall towards him.

"Look back here, will you?" Raz complied, shuffling past the pile of baggage and around the other paintings. He was surprised to discover that the baggage was partially filled with other paintings, and wondered how so many works of art could be crammed in one room. Still, he wasn't nearly as surprised as when he looked where Edgar was pointing, and saw a huge crack in the wall. Just beyond it, shrouded in darkness, were two more, lonesome canvases.

"Woah! Who knew this room was back here?" he mused aloud. He drew his head back slowly, and Edgar moved the painting back to its original spot. From where it was, no one could tell that there was anything but wall behind it. Raz looked up at Fred, and he answered his silent question.

"Look at this place. It's puny. At the rate Edgar paints, he filled it up in a couple of days. So Doctor L gave him this room to store his paintings in. It used to be a laundry room, before the place closed down. However, the old pipes are rusty and leak like crazy, so the floor's constantly wet where the pipes are. That—and the fact that it's entirely made of rock—kept the room from burning down, so the paintings in here were fine. It's just the rest of 'em that burned up." Edgar continued the story, as if they had rehearsed it.

"Just a few days ago, Razputin, I was asked to show my work in a traveling art show. It was then that I remembered these works, so I decided to see if they were still around. They would look very excellent with my more recent works, I must say." Raz peered down at the painting he was holding, and had to admit he was right.

"Yeah. These really bring back memories." He carefully fitted it into the steamer trunk, then straightened up. "Kind of weird that you guys would be here the same day I am, right?" Fred nodded, struggling to handle a painting with his stubby arms.

"I'll say. At least now we have an extra hand around. That is, if you're willing to stay and help us." Raz happily agreed, but Edgar wasn't about to let the subject slide so easily. Eventually, Fred caught his look.

"What's up, Ed?" he asked. Edgar frowned.

"In my family, we believe there are no coincidences. Everything happens for a reason. 'It's the twisted spider's web of destiny', my grandmother said once. She was a bit senile, but I really think she meant something that time. Not like with the cat…" Raz turned up from the trunk.

"Wow. That's deep," was all he could really say.

Suddenly, to everyone's surprise, a third—and unfamiliar—voice interrupted. Edgar and Fred, facing the archway, were easily able to see the speaker. Raz, however, darted his head side to side, uselessly.

The voice was female, and cold enough to make a stronger person than any of the three shiver. Her tone had a slight edge of anger underneath it, but mostly seemed cool and confident, and seemed to echo about the small room.

"Strange, indeed. However, numbers will not serve to assist you now. Our family blood is stronger than the blood of you both, strong enough to spill an army of yours with nary a thought! Wouldn't you agree, Razputin? You are, after all, a _Psychonaut_!" She cackled rather scathingly at this, causing Raz to whip his head around, and gasp loudly.

The woman had long, black hair that fell down her back a ways before unevenly cutting off. Her bangs were longer on one side, covering her right eye with a jagged veil. For clothing, she wore a long, red kimono with a black sash. Somehow, she managed to make the normally elegant article look menacing, further accented by the maniac gleam in her amber eyes. Her arms were spread out slightly, the ceremonial cloth draping off of her skinny frame. She looked eerily similar to an angel of death, with her slippered feet nary an inch from the edge of the platform

Almost accusingly, Raz pointed at her. His eyes were wide with surprise, shock, and horror. She only grinned at this, a terrifying, insane grin.

"_Aunt Jemima_!" Raz yelled in a shocked voice. The grin vanished, to be replaced by a confused pout, then an angry scowl. Her hands dropped down, then planted themselves against her hips. Her entire evil entrance had been shattered.

"That's _Julia_, you idiot. And I'm your _cousin_. Seriously, pay our family line some respect. I'm trying to create a terrifying entrance, here, so you could at _least _get my name right." Raz grinned sheepishly.

"Oh, right. Hey, Julia. Long time, no see. Where've you been? We didn't see you at the Annual Picnic last year." Julia scowled further.

"I was busy concocting up a way to kill _you_, my horrible, naïve younger cousin. Like so many others that will follow." Raz processed this slowly, his mind as the gerbil in the toy wheel; running really fast, but never really getting anywhere.

"…Seriously, if you didn't like the picnic, you could have just said so…" he began. Julia seemed particularly infuriated at this.

"_This isn't about the damn picnic, you little freak! This is about the __**curse**_!" Raz's poor mental gerbil stopped running altogether, and just sort of rocked back and forth, flopped on its mental stomach, on the wheel.

"I don't get it," he stated bluntly. The cold, cynical Julia was back. She knew something Raz didn't, and was enjoying lording it over.

"Oh, I didn't think you would, dear cousin. You're always _so_ innocent, wrapped up in your own little world. Even when, for once, you managed to taste the bittersweet nectar of insanity in someone else's mind, you continued to thrive off of only the good things in life. And why not? Nothing could ever go wrong in your storybook life, eh, Razputin? So what if the choices you make now could cost someone else so very dearly? You're stuck in the present, never thinking about your future or the risks it could have." Raz just blinked.

"What are you talking about? Of course stuff can go wrong—a _bunch_ of stuff has! And I think a lot about the future and risks and stuff!" Julia chuckled at this, obviously finding something funny. Raz noticed. "…What?"

"Tell me, Razputin. Did you hear it?" She grinned even wider at Raz's confused expression.

"Hear what? What?" It was then that he caught the victorious, expectant gleam in her eye. It was also then that he heard a floorboard creak slightly behind him. Too late, he realized what had just happened. His eyes widened at the sudden realization, his body tensing. He knew, and she knew that he knew. Her words echoed in his mind, far too late:

"_The sound of my accomplice sneaking up behind you._"

* * *

_-Monotone voice- I am an ending note. I let people know when the chapter is over. I am usually placed after a dramatic cliffhanger. Why, oh why, will you not love me? I work hard all day for limited to no reward. It is not easy being an ending note. The author likes it when people reply, especially if they are long-winded and complimentary replies. She enjoys the company of TheOptimisticPessimist and Tashilover, because they have commented on all of her chapters. She sends them her best wishes, and invites them to The Barbeque (which is now in capital lettering for dramatic emphasis) for tea and crumpets. _

_I am Psycho Director. My arch nemisis is the world. This is not Sparta, even though Sparta is on the world, as are we, because science has not yet developed the ability for people on other planets to read fanfiction. Yay. Beards. I am sick, but you cannot know that over the computer. Enjoy. Hello, everyone. I like to play _Psychonauts _and _Kingdom Hearts _as much as possible. Dude. Even though I type with an English accent, I am actually an American. Cake is delicious and moist. Sometimes, when I am bored, I will draw pictures and post them on DeviantART. Bacon-tops. I often make jokes about socially unacceptable things, like prostitution, self-mutilation, and harm to other people. EPIC._


	6. The Late, Great Agent Aquato

**_Psycho Director_: Yo! How is everyone? That's so good. Yeah.**

**..._Okay formalities are done let's get onto the letters! _8D Short author's comments are fun and painless.**

_Dear TheOptimisticPessimist (Jim),_

_WHAT ABOOT THE STORY!? THE **STORY**!? You can't abandon it in your silly comments of precocious tomfoolery... it knows where you live. And it'll come after your tall self with a toaster, storming right into the volleyball court and screaming about baked potatoes. It's that good._

_As what? You should be a clown and scare the chillrenz. I'd come to that show._

_I can't. I'd feel bad for the baby, growing up without a daddy ('cause my monkey would deny all claims and he has a good lawyer). And I would forever see the face of my own Choir teacher, who is actually a very swell guy. He's just suceptable to rare diseases where the only cure can be found in a resort in Tahiti, so he must take leave from our school post haste. However, our substitute is cool. He'd look just like one of the seniors if they ever had a receeding hairline. He's got ganster spikes and EVERYTHING. 8O_

_Burnt bacon is not delicious, your head is filled with LIES. Only cooked bacon is good, and even then, only if it is cooked to_ perfection_. But the British people will not mind, I am sure. They will just drown the burned bacon bit in tea and crumpets. And, to counter your odd case of name-stealing, uh... I have a cat named Demyx. SO HA. She doesn't like the grease punch, though... Tee hee... 'Greece' punch... xD_

_My goodness, only ever more so, because if this could be translated into facial hair, it'd be a stylish goatee, a Hilter-style moustashe, and THE WORLD'S LARGEST UNIBROW! Ooh, I'm giddy just _thinking _about it! I am sure even... uh... some dude with a lot of facial hair is jealous. Like Bigfoot. He's real, you know._

_8O... That was the most epic story I've ever heard. Alas, the only part I saw was when I casually meandered into the room while my mum and dad were watching the arrow thing. It was awesome. Quote the me, "Hey homies, what's--**HOLY SHIITAKE MUSHROOMS THE CLOUDS ARE TURNING AGAINST THE SPARTANS AT LAST AND**... Oh, wait, it's just a huge storm of arrows... HOLY CRAP!** ARROWS**!!" It was totally the best moment ever. Then it ended and I left because I was bored. THE END._

_Grits? Nay. It is corn infused with the vast, limitless power of the sun! And butter and salt. Mmm... Well, if you don't want it, I will eat them. For they are good slathered on bacon (bacon again? Really now)._

_Sincerly,_

_Psycho_

**_Dear Nintendo Nut1 (just so you know, I base the lengths of these letters on the length of the original reply -HINT-),_**

**_Epic like the lunar eclipse everyone in my hometown got to see last night because God loves Wisconsin, YEAH. And it only gets epic...er...ish. Epicerish._**

**_MUA HA HA HA -cough--hack-... Curse you, foul sore throat... And thanks. I think so, too. Aunt Jemima's pancakes are the BEST. But Julia does not make good pancakes. Just another way she is slowly crushing all of my dreams... D8_**

**_Yes. Ever so many, and there will only be more. I love to confuse. And now your wait is done. Yay._**

**_Sincerly,_**

**_Psycho_**

_Dear Tashilover (Who's name I oft confuse with another reviewer you will never know),_

_Ah, thank you. I'm so glad we can agree on this like brothers. I tried to make it a bit more game-like during the previous chapter, 'cause of the boring introduction and the fact that the game's the reason we're all here now. It brings us together, like an omnipotent roll of duct tape... Mm, duct tape... And her hair isn't nessisarily messy, it's just... anime-spikes on the ends. Because they make the moon go round (the Earth goes round because of the Wii)._

_...When did that line happen? I do not recall. And by the way, have you ever tried tickling Sasha with the crow feather? Or talking to Dogan and Elka when they're beside the GPC while holding the button a few times? Ooh, and Kitty and Franke with the button, again more than once? The things they say are so witty._

_"Razputin, _please! _Geeerms..." It took me forever to figure out that last word. I loled._

_Raz: "Hey, can I ask you guys a question?"_

_Kitty: "...No."_

_Raz: -Ignores her- "Where do you guys get your clothes? 'Cause my sister, she's kind of **fat**, and it's **so hard **for her to find quality stuff."_

_Kitty: "WHAT!?"_

_Me: "LOLOLOLOL..." 8D_

_And the middle one is kind of long, so I'm not going to write it here. FIND OUT FOR YOURSELF, plzkthnxbai._

_Sincerly,_

_Psycho_

**And that's it for that. Now, onto the story! Though a quick warning before we star: this chapter is not only laced but _saturated _in character abuse. Pretty much every major character gets abused, either physically or mentally. Especially Raz. I do not hate him (not even CLOSE!), it's just for the plot. And because it's fun (Wait, what? Hurting my favorite character from the game is _fun_? Is that normal? I should talk to my psychiatrist...). So sorry if anyone seems like a wimp because of it. Things will be explained, given time. And therapy.**

_**

* * *

**_**_Raz _attempted **to whip around and psyblast the accomplice Julia had mentioned, but by then, it was just a second slower than what was needed. A slightly muscled, tan arm shot out from the side of his head, a brown cloth pressed onto its palm. He just had enough time to yelp before the hand smacked itself against his mouth and nose, the bridge of the latter giving a slight, painful pulse in objection.

Raz grasped at the cloth dizzily, its horrible smell working its way into his lungs even as he tried to hold his breath. He stumbled back a few steps, until something kind of warm and squishy pressed against the back of his head. His mind bubbled around his head stupidly, drunkenly, as he struggled to remain conscious.

_Chloroform, _his mind registered dumbly. _I should shoot these guys. With my mind. Heh, heh. Mind shooting… How do I do that, again? Oh, no. I forgot. Sasha's gonna' be mad… I hate you, Julie-something-or-other… I'm not… not… _Then the ground flung itself against him, and he thought no more.

* * *

That was their cue. Their heads snapping to alert, two more assassins hear the telepathic thoughts of Julia, informing them simply that it was a success. Like pressed mousetraps, the two leapt out from their hiding positions, ready to face down the two remaining pawns. It all happened in a second, their Mental Cloaks streaming off as they leapt into the snake's nest.

* * *

"The _hell_!?" Vincent leapt back, startled, and not a moment too soon. A mere half a second later, a bright orange psyblast shot out against where he had been standing, leaving a charred, black crater. Confused and annoyed, he glared at the source of the blast. Just as soon, however, his glare diminished, to be replaced by an awkward stare.

"Oh my gosh, are you hurt? I'm so sorry. I thought you were one of the crazies." An African-American woman stepped out from behind a broken pillar, her orange and yellow gypsy dress slipping along the ground like water. Her black hair was cropped short, but coupled by spangly earrings and yellow-brown eyes. Vincent noticed, rather pervertedly, that her outfit (though very detailed) was scantily revealing. As he stared slightly lower than her face, she pretended not to notice, and instead put a hand delicately just below her collarbone.

"My name is Misha," she introduced herself, in a strong accent. "I was vacationing on my yacht when it crashed on this terrifying island. I've been alone for a very long time now." She was stepping closer. Vincent blushed, but tried his best to sound professional.

"Well, don't worry, ma'am. I'm a professional _Psychonaut_. No crazies are going to be able to hurt you as long as I'm around. I'll protect you." Misha gasped.

"Really? You are? Well, I shouldn't be surprised. You look just like the kind of person who would be. Strong, brave, confident, kind, protecting… I don't feel right even having someone like you near me…" Vincent was quick to assuage her, even as she ran a hand seductively down his chest.

"Hey, hey, it's alright. I could never deny someone in need. You don't have to do anything." She smiled, leaning her head closer to his, so that their faces were less than a foot apart.

"But there must be _something_ I can do, something that would make you smile…" She grinned, snapping her fingers. "I know!"

With a wicked grin, she fired another psyblast. Being at such close range, the beam hit Vincent dead-on in the center of his forehead. With a slight jerk, Vincent became suddenly alert, then fell limp. He was out like a light, flopped out on the ground like a dead person. Above him, Misha chuckled.

"For the record, Vinny, I hate Psychonauts. And you need to work on your pick-up lines.

"Still…" She pouted thoughtfully, staring up at the full moon. "That's two pieces down, and one more to go. I wonder if Atlas made the phone call yet…"

* * *

Sophia pressed her back against the asylum wall, her figure obscured by a weedy, untrimmed bush. Her search for Razputin had, so far, been fruitless. Still, she had only been searching for a few minutes, and sternly reminded herself to not give up. He had probably just gone off to play… alone… in an abandoned insane asylum… with five inmates still inside… No matter which way she looked at it, Sophia felt horrified. This was only made worse by the fact that she could hear voices in the landing above her, which was why she chose to dive into the bushes.

It wasn't cowardice that fueled her dive, really. It was her psychic empathy. In a way, it made her a horrible fighter, even with her amazing psychic powers (her Psychic Point Average was a 9, like Vincent's). Every time she hurt her opponent, she could feel their pain, their anger, and their sadness. Each of their emotions reflected in her, and threw her off. So, because of this, she was mostly selected for missions that didn't involve people. That was, until now.

"Alright, the signal's been sent out. With any luck, Agents Ricotoni and Bantanette have been decommissioned. We'll get in contact with Misha and Commodus on the way out. Got it?" A female, authoritative voice asked. A second voice, male, answered her.

"Yeah, but what should I do with these two other guys? They're out cold." There was a slight pause, during which Sophia shuddered slightly. She could sense the malevolence coming off of the pair, mostly from the female.

"…Leave them. We have what we need. Besides, they're not like us. They're pitifully human."

"Wait a second. I can understand about your cousin, but why do we need the other two?" The woman scoffed.

"Because, Artimus. We can't have any variables. If they knew about our plan, and word got out to the Psychonauts, we'd have it on us in its entirety. They don't understand. Sometimes, a few must die to protect the whole.

"And they'd make for great sacrifices. Just like my poor, dear cousin." The two speaking levitated casually down from the upper floor. Curious, Sophia peered out from her hiding place (for lack of a better term), to see who they were. As soon as she caught sight of them, though, she stood up and yelled.

"_Razputin_!" she cried, shocked and appalled. Sure enough, the unconscious ten-year-old was held limply over the shoulder of one of the two strangers, not unlike a sack of potatoes. The one holding him was a man about twenty, with slightly tanned skin and reddish-brown hair matching Raz's. He wore a blue, denim shirt with silvery buttons, and plain tan slacks. All in all, very normal compared to the odd woman in front of him. But yet, Sophia could sense the almost total apathy and uncaring inside of him. She could tell that the two wanted to do… _something_… to Raz, and he was slightly unnerved by it. And that scared her. Still, she held her ground.

"Who are you? What are you doing?" The two slowly turned to her, and Sophia breathed a tiny sigh of relief. By looking at Raz's features, he didn't seem hurt at all. His aura was gently pulsing, rhythmic and blue, in a peaceful sleep, instead of the harsh red of pain and thus unconsciousness. It had only a slight purple hue about it, threading its way through the blue like a long, thin snake (a sign of slight fear or surprise). But then, how was that possible? Was it… _chloroform_. Of course.

"Ah. Looks like one of the rabbits escaped the pen," the woman in the red outfit mused, "only to walk straight to the herder. How pathetic." Sophia scowled. She didn't like the gold aura surrounding this woman (superiority, dominance, and confidence), laced with red and a certain shade of orange (sinful happiness). She was a bad, bad woman.

"Didn't Commodus take care of you?" Artemis frowned. He turned to the woman. "Hey, Julia, you don't expect me to carry her back, too, right? I mean, one little kid's easy enough, but—jeez—I'm no strongman. That's Commodus's thing." Sophia smirked, readying a psyblast.

"You won't have to worry about that, believe me. I'm not going to give you the chance to carry anything back, except your teeth." She froze, however, when another voice cut in. This one was low, gravelly, and sounded like someone who had been smoking for many years.

"Hey, guys. Sorry I'm late." Like spilled ink, a cool gray-blue aura (bored, clam, apathy) suddenly pooled across the back of Sophia's vision. She gasped and stumbled forward at the sudden intrusion, her mind filled with questions. Where did it come from? How had she not noticed it before? Who could do that? The emotions were subtle and faded, but it still shook her. Any emotion, if it were to suddenly burst in on the natural scheme of other feelings, shocked her. So, eyes wide, she whipped around.

God, he was big. A black T-shirt was stretched over huge abs, with its sleeves ripped off unceremoniously. One bulging wrist was adorned with a spiked bracelet and black motorcycle glove, while the other had a non-matching, thick, brown, leather glove pulled over beefy digits. He had frayed jeans pulled over surprisingly tiny legs, with a wallet on a chain dangling from one pocket. His shoes were limp, floppy sneakers, crunching against the gravel and debris. Swallowing, Sophia looked up.

He was completely bald, except for a tiny patch of stringy, black hair pulled to the right side. He also had a huge handlebar moustache, and a bushy, square beard. In other words, he looked like he ate razor blades for breakfast, then washed it down with the blood and organs of ill-prepared Psychonauts.

"Oh, great. More guests," Sophia remarked in what she severely hoped was a cool way. However, her voice was high when she spoke, and it squeaked. Not exactly terrifying or composed. She seemed to sink down a little as he glared at her, then pounded a fist into the fleshy palm of his left hand.

"Should I take care of this whiny little Psychic-naut?" he growled in a thick Russian accent (were Razputin conscious at the time, he would have undoubtedly compared this big man to a possible future Mikhail and laughed. But he wasn't, so he didn't, and the world was a very worse place). After a second of thought, the woman laughed darkly.

"No, no, Commodus. I'd rather take care of this one myself." Commodus backed away a little, undoubtedly disappointed, and Sophia drew in a shaky breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. However, her horror-movie like situation was only getting worse with the woman's rebuttal. Bruises can heal. She coughed, and Sophia reared on her, then froze.

"Ah, Agent Sophia Bantanette, was it? Of course. If ours files on you are correct, then you're an empath. Tell me: can you see _my_ emotions right now? I think you can. That's so cool, how you can do that. It's like whoever you're looking at becomes a part of you. You know them so well, from just a passing glance. But it makes you care about people a little too much when you can see their inner selves, right? Makes them seem like… _family._ I'll bet Agents Ricotoni and Aquato are like family to you now, correct? Even if you would never admit it to the former, you more than happily took my cousin in. Only a few hours together, and already the three of you are so close. You must be so _happy_." She held Agent Aquato closely, his chin and one arm slung limply around one of her bony shoulders, and the other around her other, like a mother holding a sleepy toddler. It had just the effect she was hoping for: a dawning realization of the strength behind Sophia's maternal instincts, an increase in them, and enragement.

"Put him _down_," Sophia growled, probing an invisible telekinetic hand towards the sleeping boy. It slunck down closer to him, then snapped back as if shocked and dissipated, as only Sophia could see. She cursed under her breath. This woman was a psychic, too, and already had a shield erected. She was at least two steps ahead, quite possibly more. And for once, Sophia felt just a little afraid.

"Why are you doing this?" She tried a different approach, with knowledge as the ground. She fully expected a full-on monologue, something about power and psychics. She even went so far as to ready herself for the boring speech (and maybe buy enough time for the chloroform to wear off), but there was none. Instead, much to her surprise, the woman seemed rather confused. Sophia noted that there was still a definite red hue about her aura, but her eyes widened a little, and she blinked.

"You know, I'm not really sure. Why are we doing this? This whole thing is stupid. We should just abandon the project right now. What do you say, Artemis?" Artemis's eyes widened in surprise, and he backed up a step.

"Julia, what are you—" But the woman—Julia—cut him off.

"Glad you agree." Then it was back, with a sudden surge of color that made Sophia jump back and gasp. A bright flare of orange, dying over Julia's aura. It shot out about half a foot from her body in a hue, startlingly bright. Then many things happened very fast.

Julia first flung Raz's sleeping body onto the hard, rocky ground, where it hit it with a hard _thwack_ and left a heavy scrape. He lay there on the ground, his chin and palms scraped and quickly dying red (the later blooming over the worn leather of his gloves). He grunted at this, jerking roughly awake, but made no move to stand. Sophia saw this happen, let out a yell, then ran for him, but was not quite fast enough. With a sadistic, orange glow around her, Julia raised her hand.

Things went from fast-paced to horrible slow motion. Sophia could see everything, caught in perfect detail as if her eyes were cameras. Julia's twisted grin. Her two fingers rising slowly, almost leisurely, to her forehead. Artemis's and Commodus's looks of surprise and sudden revelation. The very granite catching on her shoes, then being torn away from its home and flung into the air. Her arm flung out forward, reaching just a little further, the material of a desperate mental shield glowing across them.

But, most horrifyingly of all, was the look Raz gave her. The fall had woken him up straight into a world of hell, and he was confused and scared. Sophia had seen a slideshow about the Holocaust once, and many of the Jews had the same expression when they were first huddled onto the trains to the death camps. His eyebrows were drawn tightly together and screwed upwards, into a form of sadness and disbelief at once. His mouth was slightly open, as he knew what was going on, as if he couldn't suck in air into his lungs fast enough. And his eyes… oh, God, his _eyes_… they hurt to look at. They were a sparkling green, set alight by the slight—very slight—dampness around their edges. They were wider, even, than hers, given him an absolutely terrified expression. It didn't matter that he was a professional Psychonaut, with amazing abilities and accomplishments no one else his age could do under his belt. In that moment in time, he was what Sophia had seen him as since they had gone off, and that scared her more than anything. He was, in the barest definition, a lost little boy, who was a long way from home and his mother. And his surrogate couldn't even reach him in time to save him.

The psyblast was fired with deadly accurate precision, a miss nearly impossible. At this close of range, Julia didn't even need to lock her mental focus to shoot the beam where she wanted it to go. Raz gave a great jerk as it hit, face numb with horror and blood gushing from his mouth from his suddenly cleared out and tattered lungs. The pain didn't hit him at first, his shock at what was happening masking it over. He looked up at Julia, much like a dog that had been kicked for something it couldn't figure out. He didn't scream as it happened, but rather gave a loud, wet gasp through the blood flowing up his throat like bile, more as if he had been tapped on the shoulder than shot. He then started coughing, exactly three times, never once letting a scream past those dyed red lips and wide eyes. Finally, the weight of his head broved too much for his tired neck muscles, and he fell back against the ground and lay abnormally still, a great, bloody, dark hole burned into his spine, like the unfortunate landing site of a fatal meteorite.

* * *

_To be continued... So don't freak out, okay? Okay? Oh... OH GOD, OH GOD, SOMEONE CALL THE AMBULANCE! AND THE GHOSTBUSTERS! AND MY MUM! I done it again! 8O Why, self, why? WHY?_

_-Runs around in circles until I hit a lamppost and get knocked out- Pain hurts._


	7. Things Get Stranger

**_Psycho Director: _We are gathered here today, on this momentous occasion, to celebrate this, the euphoric milestone of _Cheating Death 101_'s very own seventh chapter. _CD101 _did not ask for this reward. It was given to it, by you, the people, of these united countries of Fanfictia. But make no mistake: _CD101 _labored in the vast cornfields of Fanfictia, not for itself, not for this milestone, but for something else. Something it could not hold in its pages, but in its heart.**

**_CD101 _paved onwards for the smaller things in life, the things that go overlooked by most of us. It did it for the heart palpitations of the old, as it showed, without mercy, the more epic points of its tale. It did it for the ones who dared to smile at its violence. It did it for the faces of the parents, who saw their children reading it and wondered where they went wrong. It did it for the babies, because babies are cute. It did it for the fat people, who were searcging for something to take their minds off the fact that they should be outside right now. It did it because men in dark outfits pointed a gun at its head and told it to.**

**But, most of all, it did it for someone else. Someone who did not get the recognition they deserved, and still do. This someone worked hard to keep this fic running, even though they knew the rewards for their work would be few. Though their work may have seemed light, _CD101 _understood their true labor that lay just beyond the surface. So, to all of you, gathered here in this rainy, imaginary football field in Fanfictia, _CD101_, Psycho Director, and the Starving Spaztic Diseased Writing Monkey would like to thank...**

**...Themselves. **

**Thanks you for your time, and thank you, _CD101, _for providing us with a welcome distraction from our worst enemy of all: reality. Now, get back to work. We have a lot more chapters to fill.**

**(Molly--TheOptimisticPessimist--isn't here today in the Letters Section because she had to... butter her laundry. And she didn't comment, either. You want to know who else doesn't comment, Molly? _BUMS, _that's who.)**

_Dear Tashilover (I'm going to call you Fred now... I'll do it, I'm crazy),_

_I like it, too. But I won't use it, for I entice Murphy's Law at every turn (I don't know what that means, either)._

_I don't know. D8 Is there an option C? 'Cause I'd like to think I'm a government G-Man assigned to assassinate Al Capone at heart. And I'm Gordon Freeman, Man of Science, in my kidneys. Wait, why do all my organs think I'm a dude? No, wait. To my spleen, I'm Tyra Banks. I love you, too, spleen._

_I'd rather not fight. Fighting invokes pain, pain invokes hospitals, hospitals invoke medical science, and medical science invokes learning. And learning is something I'd rather avoid. You've seen those dudes on Dragon Ball Z. They could blow up half of Earth if they wanted to, but do not for they are kindly gents. I really can't remember where I'm going with this anymore, so I will just make a new paragraph (has anyone ever noticed that holiday chocolate, like solid Easter bunnies and Valentine's Day hearts, tastes worse than regular chocolate? What the crap? If you want to get me something Valentiny, then make it taste good.)_

_No no, it's at most PG-13 at any given time. That it, if I remember correctly, counting you ignore the fact that 'cause Raz's so short you spend the entire time tickling Sasha's general butt-area... or the other side, if you're into that kind of stuff... Which I'm not. -shifty eyes- Really. Still, you'd better go... do something... right now. I have much laundry to do._

_Sincerly,_

_Psycho_

**_Dear Nintendo Nut1 (OMG I like Nintendo, too! We should hang out some time and trade Pokemanz! And play _Twilight Princess_! And then _Super Mario Galaxy _which I don't have!),_**

**_OMG. D8 _**

**_Ooh, thanks. Is it wrong to say that's the part I had the most fun with? But, in any case, I use the same strategy a LOT. Normally it's just a random, fuzzy idea, but that time I had... just everything. Though it came out in my head all anime-stylized. But that's okay, because animes are good. DID YOU KNOW THEY ARE COMING OUT WITH A NEW SPEED RACER ANIME?? I think it will suck, because it's got all this badly-done 3-D animation mixed in with 2-D, it won't be epically bad like the original (which I heartily enjoy, even though I wasn't even alive in the 70's, ever), and Nick has it under its thumb of evil. THEY KILLED ZIM, dammit. I liked ZIM, which was one of the reasons I enjoyed_ Psychonauts_ so much (Richard Horvitz does both the voices of ZIM and Raz, yo). But then again, I really like_ Kappa Mikey _(except for some points...) and _Danny Phantom_, so they might just be able to pull it off. Maybe._**

**_And in other news, colors are great. Sophia's vision is a kalideoscope of strange, and I made it be so. Glad you like it. And mind-shooting is nothing to laugh at. It is an educational, scientific, overly-imaginative stoner-trip for KNOWLEDGE. There is nothing funny about it. Many lives were lost (I had eight when I started, and yes the pun was intended) during those times. I had to do things I will never forgive myself for, like destroy awesome lamps I could never find a place for, anyway._**

**_Thanks! Hey, if you like my stuff, I've got some other things back at my lab/account. Only one other one-shot for _Psychonauts_, though. The rest are for _Kingdom Hearts_, and ALL of them are on hiatus until I finish this or get bored or something. Except for _Recovery. _That got turned into _The Stained Glass Effect _through the writing process, so SGE's being continued instead... eventually. But if you love violence and KH, it's totally like nirvana. And pillows. I guess._**

**_Sincerly,_**

**_Psycho_**

**And now, here we go. To _another _overly-cliched but still enjoyable scene!**

**WARNING: Things get messed up in this chapter. Like, _Resident Evil_-type messed. Sweet.**

**_

* * *

__Sophia _screamed**, though she did not realize it at the time. The entire short scene replayed in her mind again and again, always the same, horrifying truth. She saw it so many times with each step she took: Raz's terrified expression as he wordlessly begged her for help. His eyes torn wide with shock, and sudden, unbelievable pain as the nerves in him suddenly kicked in. The blood splattering from his mouth as the shot was made, spilling across his chin, neck, and the top of his jacket and sweater in ugly red droplets. The shot carving into him like a sledgehammer to butter, and the blood rushing out from the resulting wound to form a huge, spreading dark blotch. All of it, again and again, was played to her, and fueled her run to be that much faster.

"_Razputin! RAZPUTIN_!" Screaming his name in an inhuman voice, she flung herself to her knees at his side, not minding the rocks biting into her lower legs at all. Using the abnormal strength her body reserved for massive emergencies, she (_gently, gently_) flipped him onto his back as if he weighed the same as a paper doll. She then (_careful_) placed a hand on his shoulder blades, just above the… wound… then another just below it. Using her hands as levers, she (_easy now_) lifted his upper half just a little way, bringing his faded green eyes into the light.

Oh, God, his skin felt so cold. Especially when it was compared to the… the blood… which ran down her arms like warm, slick coffee, and left little red trails, which cooled and chilled quickly in the night air. He was in shock, she could tell. His eyes were still as wide as they had been the moment before he had gotten shot, and his skin was papery white. He didn't even look at her, nor cry out in pain, even though he should have been in a great deal of it. Instead, his eyes were locked on his chest. Sophia saw with horror, through blurred vision, that the shot had gone straight through, and red blossomed across his green sweater.

"W-what… Why… Why did she…?" he stuttered, then paused to cough up still more of the crimson nightmare. Despite everything, Sophia was the one trying to calm him down.

"Shh… shh… It's all right… Everything's going to be okay, okay? You'll see… I'll call HQ; they'll bring in a helicopter… Just hang on until then, okay? J-just hold on!" Raz whimpered.

"But it hurts, Sophie. It hurts a lot. I just want to make the hurting _stop_." Sophia squeaked at this, sweat gathering across her brow. She could see it… feel it… he was in so much pain. Even just using her empathy, she felt an unbelievable urge to go to any means to make everything stop hurting so bad. But, no, she couldn't… She had to hold on, for both of them

"N-no, Raz, no. Hurting is good, hurting is fine. You're going to be fine. And we're going to go home, and just forget about these psychos. They're someone else's problem. And we'll just sit back at HQ and play board games and throw stuff at Vincent's head and light stuff on fire…It'll be fun! We could head over to the amusement park and the circus and the zoo, and go on undercover missions like secret agents…We will, I-I promise!" Raz coughed again, more fiercely.

"I'd like that… It's cold here… I want to go home…" Sophia smiled at him, even through her miserable eyes and the twin tear tracks running down the sides of her face.

"Yes! I'll take you home, right after this! You'll get to see your family again, and I can, too. Everything's going to be fine, trust me!" Raz managed to smile back at her, but it was tiny and strained. He, too, looked sad, but it was a peaceful kind of sad, which was what distressed Sophia the most. Even a screaming, panicking Raz would have been better than the finality with which he looked at her.

"Sorry, Sophia. I made a really bad agent…" Sophia gasped, holding him closer.

"Don't say that! You have nothing to be sorry about! And you make a _wonderful _agent! You're an extremely talented psychic, and you're brave, and strong, too! You have so much potential left. I know you're going to be a great Psychonaut." But Raz still looked doubtful.

"But this… this is my fault. I—" he cut off to hiss in pain, a single hand jerking up in the general direction of his wound, but the arm not even lifting off the ground. Sophia let out a cry at this, but he continued on. "I-if I hadn't run away from you guys, this wouldn't… have happened. I'm sorry." He paused again to cough, harder than before. Even more blood—totaling for more than Sophia would have thought possible for someone so small to lose—spilled across his front in a speckled bib. He was gasping for air now, his voice raspy and wet. Sophia didn't want to tell herself it, and her mind automatically countered the statement with firm denial, but in her heart she _knew_: he wasn't going to make it.

"Raz… I'm so sorry… You shouldn't be here…" He only smiled, the normally calming expression gaining a horror-movie style feel, what with it being ringed with red.

"I'll miss you… You're a nice person. And… I wish they couldn't get you, too."

"They're not going to get me. I promise." Raz smiled again, but this one was faint and dizzy.

"Heh… A little too late… for that…" Then his features relaxed, his body slumped down in her arms, and he was quiet. And Sophia knew, just knew, that he was dead. And it was all her fault, because she let the emotions of others control her fighting.

_He could be sleeping, _she realized suddenly, drawing him into a hug—still sitting—and rocking slowly back and forth not unlike a crazy woman. _If it weren't for his white skin, how cold he feels, and that hole in him, he could be sleeping. _

"Razputin… God, why? Of all of us, why _you_?" as was to be expected, he didn't respond. His head sagged forward over her shoulder, almost as if in shame. Even now, she could feel his body rapidly becoming colder and colder in the brisk night air, no blood to flow to keep it warm. She had a sudden vision of her leaving the body at the asylum (for she couldn't bring it back in the jet. It was a long trip back, and the body would start to rot). She imagined, her mind leaving out no hideous detail, his skin coming off in loose peels, his blood clotting and congealing, crows and flies and maggots poking experimentally at his unresponsive flesh… She shivered, squeezing her eyes shut and pressing his still firm figure closer. Yes, to anyone else, he would have been a revolting corpse best left to rot. But to her, for just a few moments longer, he was still the same little boy who had asked her if she was heading to France back at HQ, skinny legs swinging and eyes alight with curiosity. "Raz…"

"Calling his name's not going to change anything, you know," a voice called from behind her. Sophia perked up and turned around, to face the source behind the blue aura dying her vision. She gasped, her surprise showing through her tear-streaked face.

"Vincent!" Sure enough, the confidant, raven-haired Italian strolled casually out from the shadowed darkness of the Tower's remains. The moonlight caught and glistened on someone running down the side of his face, which shone black in the night. Sophia, having just settled down a little from his appearance, shot up again.

"Vincent, you're bleeding," she stated. And it was true: a thick stream of the dark liquid ran, not only from the side of his face, but all over the black jacket and white shirt of his suit, down past his crotch and onto his upper legs. She noticed as well, with a stifled cry of repulsion, that his left arm was nearly gone, hanging on only by a slick red string of muscle and tendons. It waved back and forth as he stepped closer, but he either didn't notice or care about the mind-numbing pain it should have caused him. He glanced down at it, as if confirming it was there, then smiled and shrugged.

"Yeah. Those Spade guys are a pain in the ass. Nearly got me, once. Guess they didn't suspect what I'd do to get loose." He waved his arm slightly, sending the nearly detached limb into spastic rocking. Sophia let out another cry, gritting her teeth together to keep it from becoming a full-fledged shriek.

"_Stop it_, Vince! You need to see a hospital! You're going to _bleed to death_!" She clutched Raz tighter to her, like an oversized, blood-strewn teddy bear, her psyche perilously close to being shattered. It was then that Vincent noticed the dead little boy, from his lifeless green eyes to the hole burned though his midsection (which still dripped out blood in large, wet, half-congealed blobs).

"Heh, looks like the little guy wasn't so lucky. I guess it's harder to part with your internal organs." Sophia gave a quiet sob at this, continuing her slight rocking. His skin had gone as cold as the environment around it, and she rubbed a hand up and down across the back of his jacket to build of friction and warm him up. With every passing second, the voice that stated that _he could be sleeping_ got fainter and fainter.

"Vincent, he's _dead_. Please, don't joke like that." Vincent grinned and nodded, knowingly, in a disturbing way.

"Ah. The Spades, right?" Sophia blinked, pressing her chin against the top of Raz's head.

"What?" Vincent waved his non-severed hand.

"You know, those guys running loose in this place, like wild dogs. Commodus, Misha, Artemis. That woman you saw, Julia—they all dance under her tune. Call themselves the House of Spades, like fucking secret agents. Though I get this feeling those four aren't all there is in the Spades. Call me paranoid, but something gets me feeling that there's this bigass _conspiracy_ going on that we have _no clue_ about. It's nuts, but… you saw what happened to the little guy. They're not about to show mercy, especially not to us." Sophia continued rubbing Raz's back, her blood-coated hands smearing red streaks across the dark jacket fabric.

"But… what do we do? They're powerful psychics, I could feel it when… when I tried to save him." She swallowed, the memory of the recent incident flashing across her mind. Raz had died in pain, horrible pain, and it was all her fault. She voiced an excuse. "I _tried_, Vincent. I tried to save him. Please, believe me. I wanted to save him, more than _anything_. I… I could feel what he felt. He was hurting. In the end, he didn't even _want_ to _live_ anymore. He just wanted to make the pain—what they did to him—stop. I tried to stop it from happening, but… I couldn't."

"You fucked up." Vincent stated bluntly. Sophia stuttered a little.

"I-I… yeah. I did. I couldn't save Raz's life. I'm a trained professional… and I couldn't even save one little boy…" She buried her head against his helmet, against the back of his head, just below his neck. She began crying again, not even trying to hide her wails of distress. He was so _cold_!

"_Nothing_." Sophia froze, still sniffling a little, against the helmet.

"W-what?" she asked, rather incredulous. "What did you say?" Vincent chuckled, and Sophia, becoming gradually more terrified at the events unfolding, stood up to face him. Raz lay, abandoned, on the ground, his blank, half-closed green eyes giving him the impression of him being hypnotized. Meanwhile, Vincent grinned.

"We can't do anything, Bantanette. We can't stop these guys. We're the most incompetent retards on the squad, and you _know_ that. That's why they sent us on normal-crazy work. They weren't expecting this mission to jack up in difficulty, and neither were we. We're going to die here, Sophia, and that's that." Sophia gaped.

"Vincent… You can't mean that…" Vincent smirked wider, taking a step closer.

"I do. Look at us, Soph. Look at who we _are_. A cocky, arrogant ass. A woman who takes 'overly-sensitive' to an extreme I've never seen before. And a kid who probably isn't even psychic. They've taken one of us out already. They're going to pick us off, one by one. And you won't do a damn thing about it. You know why?

"Because you're _pathetic_. You care more about personal grudges than you do about the safety of your partners. One of us is already off the list. It's only a matter of time before all three of us are dead." Sophia stepped back, eyes wide and shaking her head slowly, back and forth, like a pendulum.

"You… you don't know what you're talking about!" she exclaimed. Vincent burst out laughing at this, making her jump. It wasn't a welcome laugh, but rather a twisted, insane bark.

"You're right. Frankly, I'm surprised I can talk at all. After all… _I'm already gone_." Then, to the chorus of Sophia's horrified scream, he reached into the cut on the side of his face… then pulled the skin away from his face, revealing a grinning skull underneath.

* * *

_To be continued! D8_


	8. This Can't Be Real

**_Psycho Director: _I do not own _Psychonauts_. Well, not yet, anyway.**

**Rated PG-13: Gore, strong language, cartoon violence._

* * *

_ **

_"Vincent! VINCENT_**!" **Sophia screamed at the new, zombie-like Ricotoni, jumping back a good distance away from him. This wasn't right! He should be _dead_ because of that! She could even see the trails of blood oozing from the edge of the pulled back skin and running in trails down the skull. What was going on?! "WHat happened to you? _Stop_!" 

Vincent only laughed, forcing the flap of skin back where it had come from. A red seam oozed out from its edges, being the only proof that it had ever been moved. Sophia screamed again, so loud that she nearly missed a third, quiet voice. Still, she calmed down a few seconds before the third voice spoke, so she was just barely able to make it out through the white haze of panic that obscured her senses.

"…Sophia?" She turned around at the familiar, childish tone, ever so slowly. No, no, it couldn't be… not him… not him, too... But if Vincent could, then…

"R-Raz?" she stammered, staring at the previously killed ten-year-old. Raz stared at her through eyes still deathly blank, no longer lit on the inside like they used to be, rubbing one with his fist in a sleepy fashion. He was sitting up right where he had died, the bottom part of his lower body getting soaked through with crimson. Sophia saw, with mounting horror, that dried blood still formed a trail down from his mouth to pool on his jacket, and the hole through his chest was still there. In fact, she could clearly see a segmented bit of the asylum behind him through it. He was in the same was as Vincent. Neither of them should have been alive.

"Zom…bies?" she asked, unable to believe it. Vincent scoffed at this, and she whirled around to face him. The blood around his peeled skin had hardened, giving her the impression of a red line of glue. Even with his skin masking over it, she could still clearly imagine his grinning skull. Its rows of jagged teeth mimed his current grin, from just behind it. Stagehands behind the curtain, really.

"_Zombies_? Hell no. We're not even close enough to be among the living dead. We're just dead. And—what was that you said before? Oh, right. It's all your fault." Sophia was about to choke out a counter to that, and even opened her mouth to do so, when she felt a slight tug on her cover-all's leg. She looked down, straight into the gory nightmare-face of Razputin. He didn't look as insane as Vincent, though. He looked sad. And, in a way, that was just as bad, if not worse. Fear was direct. This was something else, a partly scary, partly heart-breaking feeling deep inside her.

"Why?" he asked simply, his youthful eyes curious as well as sad, and… disappointed. "Why did you kill us, Sophia? Why didn't you save us? We never did anything so mean to you." She stared into his frozen, completely lifeless eyes, and felt two strong urges conflict with each other. One was to pull the little boy into her arms, to coax him, and to reassure him that she had given it her all and that things _would_ be all right again (even if she didn't believe it herself). The other was the more logical side of her, the one struck by the blood on his face and the hole he wore that you could thread a needle through. It wanted to scream at this monster, to push him away, to shoot him in the head until she was sure he wouldn't come back… But she couldn't do that.

They were too human for her to hurt them, Raz _or_ Vincent. _I'm dreaming, I'm dreaming… Oh, God, let me wake up… Make this stop…_

"Raz, I—" she began, but once again, she was cut off, this time by Vincent.

"Don't bother explaining it to the kid. It's pretty obvious. You're nothing but a damn spineless coward, and that's all you ever will be. It doesn't matter how many people die because of it, be it two or two hundred. You'll never change, until the day you die, too." Raz turned to look at him, his curious expression never wavering.

"When's that gonna' be, Mister Ricotoni?" he asked, and Sophia's stomach dropped. She knew where this was going. It was all lining up like the punchline to a horrible joke. _So three Psychonauts walk into an asylum, and two of them end up dead and come back as zombies. Then they start eating the third, and the third says… _and so on. Vincent just chuckled, which he had been doing a lot of, lately.

"Oh, I'd say today's as good as any day, right, kid?" Raz's face broke into a horribly human grin, and he brought his fists up in a symbol of excitement. Sophia was right.

"Yeah! Can we, Mister Ricotoni? I'm so hungry." Vincent shrugged, but Sophia could see the dark grin on his face.

"Knock yourself out. I'll help you. She may not be a fighter, but she _is_ psychic. You might need a hand." Raz turned to her, then, and he looked sad once more. If she hadn't known better, she would have mistaken the blood on his face for a minor injury, and he was just frowning because it hurt and he wanted her to make it feel better. Then she saw the burn marks and blood across his jacket, and she knew it wasn't at all minor.

"Sorry about this, Miss Bantanette. But it's gotta' happen. You hurt me, so it's my turn to hurt you. I still think you're a nice person, though. Selfish and cowardly, but nice." Sophia backed up until she was pressed against the wall (why had she not noticed that wall before?) and he grinned, revealing razor-sharp teeth. She looked at the boy with pleading eyes.

"Please, don't do this. I didn't mean to hurt you." Raz stepped closer, still speaking. Sophia found this chillingly ironic, to hear his young alto voice say such monstrous things.

"I'm sure you didn't mean to, but yet you still did. I hope you won't take this personally. I still want to be friends with you." Vincent cut in, his insane happiness disintegrating.

"Hurry up, kid. I'm starving, and I want to get back at the bitch who did this to me." Raz nodded at him, then pounced. Sophia let out one scream before he was on her, digging his nails into his skin and trying to bite at whatever was in biting range… She was erecting shields and he was shattering them with his Psiclaw… She pulled out a confusion grenade and he slapped her hand and sent it flying… she fired a Psyblast and he threw up a shield, which she tattered with her own Psiclaw only to get Psiclawed in the arm… Then Vincent threw himself in and they were attacking her, smothering her, she couldn't breathe, she couldn't fight, and, _oh,_ it hurt so much… No… _No_… She blacked out, and thought no more.

The whole attack lasted only fifteen seconds.

* * *

"_Once more I'll say good-bye to you… Things happen but we don't really know why… If its supposed to be like this, why do most of us ignore the chance to miss? Oh, yeah… Torn apart by your seams, make my dreams turn to tears. I'm not feeling this sit-u-a-tion!_" 

"Kid?"

"_Run away, try to find, that safe place you can hide, the best place to be when you're feeling like… Me (me)! You (you)! All these things I hate revolve around me (me)! You (you)! _

"Kid?"

"_Just back off before I sna-a-a-p…_"

"Kid!"

"Hey, I just got to the chorus, lighten up. What is it?"

"I think Soph's waking up."

"What? No way! …I mean, well, _finally_."

Voices. They were so familiar to her, but her mind was so foggy she couldn't remember. Where was she? What had happened? At one point, she was walking with a black-haired person… The scene was too hazy and her mind was too confused for her to remember who. In another, she was being attacked. Yes, that was it. But which scene was real? Both? Her mind was a jumbled mess, and memories were slow to return.

"Wake up, sleeping ugly."

"Agent Bantanette? Hello?"

"Give it up. She's probably just having another nightmare about zombies. I think that last fit of screaming lasted for five minutes. Hard to tell, though."

Sophia Bantanette. That was her, yes. She could remember that. But who were the voices? She had faces—the faces of the zombies, but without as much gore—but not names. Slowly, slowly, she forced her eyes open.

Two people—the zombies—were staring at her, their hungry eyes alight and teeth glistening with fresh blood, and… wait, no. It was them, alright, but they weren't even scratched. And, in a sudden flash that made her head throb, all of the memories of the past while came shooting back. Arriving at the Tower… looking for Raz… being confronted by Julia… and then, the zombies. But yet here they were, Vincent and Raz, alive and well, watching her look around. They weren't zombies, they weren't trying to eat her, and they weren't dead.

"You're OK," she gaped, staring at them as if she couldn't quite believe it. She remembered the expression Raz gave her before he received that fatal blow (one she knew she would remember forever), his small apology he gave her even as he knew he was dying, Vincent pulling away the skin from his face, then his cruel words he sneered at her…

_You care more about personal grudges than you do about the safety of your partners… I'm already gone… I couldn't even save one little boy… Why didn't you save us, Sophia? We didn't do anything so bad to you… _But it was all a lie. All of it. Just a horrible, horrible dream.

"You're OK!" She lunged forward and wrapped Raz in a tight hug, just barely remembering to crouch down a little so his face wouldn't be mashed into her boobs, but just above her shoulder instead. Raz yelped as she did so, and Vincent jumped back, yelling the full phrase of the acronym "WTF".

"Razputin… I thought I lost you. I watched them kill you, but it was all a dream. Thank God… Thank _God_…" She sniffled, the nightmare still fresh in her mind. But it was all right now, wasn't it? He felt the same as in her dream, but not. There was no hot blood on him, and his skin was only slightly cold, but not freezing, as it would be if his blood had stopped flowing. He was alive, and it felt amazing.

"A-agent Bantanette… Sophia… I can't breathe…" he gasped, red-faced, as she noticed her shoulder digging into his neck. He pushed away from her at the same moment she let go, and this, in turn, caused him to stumble back. His back hit a series of vertical steel bars with a metallic _clang_. The bars were close-set, like… a cage. Sophia jogged up and ran her hand along one of them (it was cool to the touch), as Raz rubbed his neck and grimaced.

"What? Bars? Are we in a… _cage_?" The concept of herself being locked inside one would have normally filled her with dread, but her thoughts were still focused on the suddenly-alive Razputin: _This was no place to put a growing boy! _Fortunately, Vincent added in his two cents.

"By the barest definition, yes. But three of these walls are cement, so I like to think of it as a prison. And, unfortunately for us, there's no guys in orange bodysuits on the other side, which means _we're_ the prisoners." Sophia, returning to some form of normalcy already, sighed and shook her head. Both her hands were clamps around bars on either side of her head, and she faced the outside.

"And I suppose that's _so _different, right?" She turned back to Vincent, putting a hand subconsciously on Raz's shoulder. He pretended not to notice. If it made her feel better, then fine. At least it was better than hugging. Meanwhile, Vincent just shrugged.

"I guess. Makes _me_ feel better, anyway. Less animal-like." Sophia shrugged this off, refusing to even consider the idea of them as caged animals. Too disturbing.

"But who would do this? Who would lock us in like this? And why?" Once again, Vincent shrugged.

"Not sure. But we did see a buff guy carry you in when you were napping, and we shot him a few questions. Turns out he's working for this whole underground organization, so far as he would tell us. Called themselves the 'House of Spades'. So I guess we're in _their_ HQ… Sophia?" But Sophia was far off, remembering something from her dream. Something that made her become more than a little afraid.

_"That woman you saw, Julia—they all dance under her tune. Call themselves the House of Spades, like fucking secret agents. Though I get this feeling those four aren't all there is in the Spades. Call me paranoid, but something gets me feeling that there's this bigass _conspiracy _going on that we have _no clue_ about…"_

"Sophia?" Sophia spoke again, but her voice was laced with concern. Her grip on Raz's shoulder tightened slightly, and her eyes widened.

"It was a dream… wasn't it?" she asked. No one answered.

* * *

**Boo! Ha! Bet you were wondering where this old thing was, weren't you? Yeah, I decided to move the Notes from up theeere to down heeere, so anybody reading this would be spared its random wrath until _after _they got what they came for and were temporarily sedated. Is my plan not amazing? 8D **

**And I know, right now most of you out there probably want to throttle me, for killing off the characters then bringing them back using the cheeziest author's trick possible. Still, the important thing is that everyone's alive. Well, everyone important. Bartholomew wasn't important, so thar. And here's the trick, in case you didn't get what I was talking about:**

**_Sacred Technique of the Cheating Author! _It was all a dream. The end.**

**I love to use it. 8D**

**So, uh... TheOptimisticPessimist/TOP/Molly/That Person, you can come back now. Raz's not dead (phew!), and the story's still going on. PLEASE? It's ever so lonely in here... and you forgot to turn off the grill... DON'T LEAVE ME HERE ALONE!! 8O**

**In other news, I'm drawing again! 8D Yaaaay! I'm actually in the process of writing a manga I've been wanting to do since forever. It's called _PsychoKinetics_ (working title), and it's about psychics because psychics are amazing. Oh, and Japan. That's in there, too. And me. I've always wanted to be in a comic. 8D It's basically about this girl, Nami Arigawa, who goes to Tokyo, Japan as part of a foreign-exchange student program being used by a company called VenTec to re-establish a feeling of connection between Japan and America (it's in the future). VenTec specializes in coming up with programs (instructional videos, phamplets, the whole bit) to 'help' people 'deal with' psychics in their community (which are pretty much everywhere). In laymans terms, they're totally anti-psychic, and want the entirety of Japan and America, as economical giants, to be the same way. However, the psychics don't take this lying down, and start up a rebellion of their own. And to top it all off, Nami finds out she's a telekinetic! 8O And there you have it. I got three and a half pages penciled out now.**

**And I'm trying to get to work on a _Psychonauts _doujinshi, but I'm not sure where to begin. It's just the game in manga form, but I wanna' put in Raz right away, but the game actually begins with Coach Oreos talking to _das lichle kinds_. **

**...That was supposed to be German for 'the little kids'. I haven't used German in forever, so more than likely it's wrong. 8(**

**So, now, back to letters! I'm _excited_. And we got a new reader today! Let's all give Gijinka (or just Julia?) a hand. **

_Dear Gijinka Renamon (I tried to remember where I heard your name before, then realized I was thinking of 'pachinko'. True story, my bad),_

_YES! I mean no. Tee-hee. Do not worry, for the Sacred Technique of the Cheating Author shall prove useful once again, and good times are had by all. Yay, I do say. 83 What? Haven't you ever seen someone pull their face off before? That's normal, you know. -Nods furiously-_

_I will... someday. A long, long time after you di... oh, wait, here we are. -Hums happily and updates- ENjoy._

_Sincerly,_

_Psycho_

_**Dear Tashilover (Robert),**_

**_Irrelivente. It's a tradition of mine to put the full usernames after 'dear', so anyone stopping by knows who I'm addressing this to. I orignally had a joke in mind with that, but forgot it when I started writing. However, I like to mention stuff like Murphy's Law and deoxiribonucleic acid and science. Makes me sound smart. 8D_**

**_Maybe. I wouldn't know. I only played one of the Silent Hill games (The Room). It was alright, scary enough, but I get really bored if a game doesn't have enough action, so I turned it off. Plus it reminded me of 1408. The comparisons during the first part are triiipy... Though, in retrospect, I suppose you're right. Or, if nothing else, at least Cell creepy. The book's really not scary at all, but it's got zombies and stuff. And I loooove zombies. 8D_**

**_Wow, you're good. 8O You should be a medium, or at least a small (get it? It's a pun! 8D). Yay, my ass is safe. No death or angerness for all._**

**_Sincerly,_**

**_Psycho_**

_Dear Nintendo Nut1 (Seriously, who's the original Nintendo Nut??),_

_Thanks. I... I do, too._ _8( He's totally my favorite character, ever. Erm, does that make me a pedophile? I hope not. That would be strange. Very much so. But do not fret, civilian, for he's okay. OH MAI GAWD I MISSED YOU, RAZPUTIN!! (his full name is awesome, you cannot lie) -Tackle hug- I didn't think you were gonna make it, but you did! OMG! I'm... so... happy! I never would have guessed!_

_Raz: Yeah, you would have. You wrote it._

_Me: ...Your abnormally large head which is incredibly huge is swimming in a lake of_ lies

_Raz: Whut? 8(_

_Me: NOTHING. _

_Thanks. Glad my writing style's cool with ya'll. Even when it murders people._

_Raz: Help me._

_And, in order: Probably so, I agree, ZIM totally rocks (I even have a GIR T-shirt I bought at Hot Topic because I could--everyone there was shockingly _nice_), and GLUE. That is all._

_Sincerly,_

_Psycho_

**Buh-byeee! -Waves-**


	9. Phone Calls and Death Threats

**_Psycho Director: _Hey, guys! I'm eating these cheesy noodles right now, and they taste just like pizza! Weird, eh? I think so!**

**Ooh, what's this? Fanartz? Really? I don't know who this**

**_SHADOW-WARRIOR-NAMI ON DEVIANTART DOT COM_**

**is, but she must be a nice person. And talented. And amazing. And... Aw, fudge, you know it's me. I drew two pictures of the scene in chapters 7 8 (It was just going to be one, but once I drew it, I couldn't stop!). I'm rather proud of how they came out (minor flaws aside), and now you can finally know what Vincent and Sophia look like! Yay! Vincent has a goatee. WIN. Though, is it just me, or do Raz and Vincent in the first pic look like they're about to fall on their sides? I swear it didn't look like that in the original. 8( That makes me sad. Oh, well! The links are (sort of)...**

**www DOT deviantart DOT com SLASH art SLASH oh-SNAP-CD101-Ch-7-8-SPOILERS-78823526**

**www DOT deviantart DOT com SLASH art SLASH Breakfast-CD101-Ch-6-8-SPOILA-78825132**

**Enjoy. 8D Now it is time for letters.**

_Dear Nintendo Nut1 (HI),_

_Wooooow. That sounds epic. Oddly, it sounds catchier than Nintendo Nut. More victorious. NINTENDO NUT WON... a toaster. 8D But don't worry, I know how happy you really are. I won a toaster once, too. It was amazing. Like... oh, right. You meant you're happy because everyone's OKAY. Right. I'm happy, too. Sort of. Though I haven't seen that episode of House yet. WAY TO SPOIL IT FOR ME. 8( But I'm over it. 8D_

_I COULD have bought one. And I COULD have bought this awesome one I saw that had a bunch of the characters in colored outlines in space, with this tiny Irken Invader ship shooting at them Space Invaders-style. But I didn't, because GIR is my favorite character. So I am a satisfied cusstomer. YOU MAY HAVE WON THE BATTLE, BUT THE WAR IS NOT OVER! For I am... GER-MAN! I wear linderhousen and throw beer kegs and German chocolate cakes at people! Fear me. _

_I don't mind double-reviews. They make me feel loved. As long as they're not the same thing twice, because those just annoy me. 8( _

_You are CORRECT. I was hoping someone would notice that. Even Vincent is OOC, if you will notice. he may be a jerk... but he isn't that much. Just in Sophia's head. Like, in my head, I see everything as a type of cake. EVERYTHING. You are a PINEAPPLE UPSIDE-DOWN CAKE. So, congrats for noticing! You win... ANOTHER TOASTER! Woo! You enjoy that, and the delicious IC-ness. _

_Sincerly,_

_Psycho_

**_Dear Tashilover (you are a SWISS ROLL LITTLE DEBBIE CAKE. Can I eat you?),_**

**_Woah. Al knew what he was talking about. But, question! -Waves hand around- How come he DOESN'T know 'what weapons WWI WILL be fought with', when that quote was taken in 1952? WWI was in the 20's! Ha, I win. I learned all my history from Bioshock reviews. Except for mythology, which I learned from a cereal box. I feel kind of stupid now, though, because when coming up with the names of the bad guys I used Greek-Roman mythology, when later I learned that Rasputin was a definate Russian name, and it would have made infinately more sense to make the other guys' names Russian as well, because they all come from the same area (you'll see...). HOW did I get 'Russian' and 'Greek/Roman' confused? HOW?_**

**_8D ...Who? I liked _World War Z_, though it was pretty confusing. And besides, the livin' dead are the BEST. Except maybe for vampires. And pirates. And Spartans. And ninjas a little bit. And Pokamanz. And psychics, DUH._**

**_OMIGOSH you're right. 8O I can't believe I didn't think of that. Thanks for the heads up, though I think it'll be alright. There's actually a ton more to the plot, and it's not like I don't have a BILLION more to substitute it. Seriously. All the time. It's crazy. Anyway, thnaks for the comment, and have a good day!_**

**_Sincerly,_**

**_Psycho_**

**This chapter does not contain Raz, Sophia, or Vincent and I apologize. However, it does have many other awesome people to balance it out. So there.**

* * *

**_At _12:07** AM, standard-pacific time, two signals went out from two separate buildings. Both were interconnected, but neither was aware of the other signal's presence. One was telepathic. The other was a phone call. And both were about the three agents that had gone into Thorny Towers Insane Asylum, and hadn't returned.

At 12:07 AM, standard-pacific time, Sasha Nein was silently woken up by a telepathic message, deep inside his lab at Whispering Rock Psychic Summer Camp. He received and answered it without even getting out of his bed.

At 12:07 AM, standard-pacific time, Vladimir Aquato jerked awake at the sound of his phone going off, muttering obscenities. He was in a gypsy caravan, parked in the middle of the infamous Aquato Family Circus.

This is what happened.

* * *

_Agent Westfield? _Mien Gott,_ it's past midnight. This had better be an emergency situation. _Sasha answered the signal telepathically, still lying back in bed, in a side room in his lab. The room was nearly completely dark, except for a faint blue hue in the higher areas of the lab. Dark, blocky shadows were cast from the random stacks of boxes all across the area, contrasting slightly with the blue.

_I wouldn't be talking to you if it wasn't. HQ's been faced with a major crisis, and I have to inform all branches involved. _Sasha slowly sat up in bed, then, his dark blue comforter coming to rest in a crumpled heap in his lap. He yawned, rubbing his black hair with one hand exhaustedly. His mind just wasn't its usual self in the early morning, and he slouched heavily against the wood headboard.

_All right. What is it, and how is our branch involved? We were nowhere in the area… _The realization hit him like a lead weight and he bolted up, perfectly erect, as he remembered which of their agents _was_ in the area. _Razputin!_

_Bingo. He's one of the six we're worried about. _Sasha ran a hand through his hair again, but this time it was an anxious habit, and not a tired one. Suddenly he wasn't tired at all.

_Sheißt. You'd better explain what's going on, Agent Westfield._

_Alright, here goes. At eleven-thirty-three, some pedestrian found a standard taxi parked outside his house. He's in Specter City, Section 15, which is—_Sasha cut in, impatiently.

_Just outside of headquarters, I know. _Derek's psychic tone of voice was defensive in his next transmission.

_Alright, alright, you know that. So, anyway, the cab's driverless, but it's got a passenger. Agent Jenquin, dead as all hell. His throat was slit. We thought it was just some random assassin, so we decided to check up on the other agents we had sent out on missions. _Sasha bit his lip. Raz had been assigned a mission for that night.

_Agents Tyri, Grigori, Bantanette, Ricotoni, and Aquato were the other six who had gotten missions so far. The last three were sent together on a mission in Thorny Towers, but the other two were on lone missions. _Agent Grigori was counted as two people, being Siamese twins.

_And…? _From over the connection, Sasha could hear Derek sigh, sadly. His stomach dropped, though he kept his composure, as always.

_Jesus, I don't want to be the one to tell you this. We couldn't connect telepathically to any of them. It was like they had vanished. So we sent out search teams to where they had been doing their missions at, to see if they could find them. They did. Tyri had his head bashed in, and the Grigori's were stabbed with a knife through the back, three times. The blade was still in them. _

_And what of Ra… the other three? What happened to them? _Sasha was rapidly growing nervous, and exceedingly so. If whatever was out there could take on fully trained agents, and powerful ones at that… if they had lost the connection to all of them…

_We don't know. The teams couldn't find anything. There was some blood in the grounds area, so they're assuming the worst._

_But if there were no bodies…_

_We can't act on that chance, Nein. We have to evacuate HQ, then send in some detectives. _A pause._ …You shouldn't have put him on the team. We all know he's not ready. _Sasha sighed, moving his hand over his forehead and rubbing it, like he had a headache.

_I know. Why did you contact me about this?_

_I was told to contact anyone associated with the in—_

_I mean the real reason._

_…Because unless those three agents can pull a miracle out of their collective asses, you and Milla may be the only hope they've got. Let's have a toast. _Sasha let himself smirk, sliding over to sit on the side of his bed.

_To illegally contacting fellow agents and convincing them to go on what may be either a suicide mission or a wild goose chase? _He asked. From HQ, Derek chuckled.

_To throwing minors into the world's most grueling psychic battlefield, keeping a crazy guy in your basement, and destroying classy stained-glass lamps._

_I do gladly toast you, then, good sir._

_To amazing victory, or crushing, pointless defeat, I do gladly toast you back. _And Sasha got ready to leave.

* * *

It was a full moon that night, he remembered. The entire circus had long since packed up their things for the night, and the normally colorful and exciting tents and caravans looked dark, quiet, and abandoned. Only a few pinpricks of light shone out, peeking merrily out into the night from under tent flaps and half-drawn curtains (and in some cases, bare windows). One of the lights continued to shine on from a ridiculously towering caravan, its warm yellow glow seeping out from under the shades and the cracks between the door and the wall, even as the person who had left it on dozed.

His name was Vladimir Aquato, a world-renowned acrobat and father of five (busy guy...). He had sat placidly near the window only a few moments before, contentedly watching the moonlight, as he often did. However, his weary state proved greater than his desire to watch, and his propped elbow suddenly supported much more than it had before. His eyes were shut tight, his mouth slightly agape, and his red beard hairs trembled in the warm glow of a single lamp as he breathed. The lamp burned happily on, unaware that the person it was burning for was out like a… well, a light.

That was, until the cell phone rang.

"Guh—whazzuh—huh!?" and other such noises accompanied Vladimir as he jerked awake, flung his weight off his elbows, lost his normally cat-like balance and grace, pinwheeled his arms, then fell roughly onto his backside over the course of a few seconds. With a tired groan, he slowly picked himself up, rubbing his lower back, as the phone continued to chirp (it should be noted that, being a _travelling_ circus, regular phone lines were impossible for the performers to use, if not terribly inconvenient, so they made due with cellular technology).

"I'm coming, I'm coming… Now, who in the world would be calling this late?" he picked up the tiny silver device, then, curious, checked the caller ID. He was surprised to see it read, simply, 'Unknown Number'. "That's odd…" Nevertheless, he answered it.

"Hello?" The voice on the other end was young, probably in his late teenage years, but arrogant.

"Mr. Aquato?" Vladimir sat down slowly on a hammock strung up in one corner of the room, yawning.

"Aye. That's me." The voice on the other end chuckled, but there was nothing pleasant about it. Especially considering his next sentence, which Vladimir pressed his ear tight against the speaker to hear.

"_We have your son_." Vladimir's breath caught in his throat at those words, as if a stopper had been shoved down his throat. He recalled his two sons, drawing up memories of the last time he had seen them. One was still at the circus, but in a separate tent form his father. It was entirely possible for someone to sneak in at night and him… but why? They made reasonably good money from their shows, but not enough to imply the threat of a ransom. And he was pretty sure he hadn't enticed anyone into a grudge worthy of kidnapping, as he was a reasonably nice boy. That left his eldest son (the other being eight). As if confirming this, the person on the other end of the phone line chuckled again.

"Are you surprised? You shouldn't be. I thought you might have expected this, even. After all, being a Psychonaut is very dangerous. It's not always fun and games, unlike your circus." Vladimir tried to speak; his throat was too dry. He tried again, and successfully managed to choke out a few words.

"I-is he alright? Is he safe?" Vladimir glanced down as he waited for an answer. The hand not clutching the phone was wrapped, vice-like, around his pillow, and its knuckles were pale white. This was one of his personality traits; he only clenched his hands tightly when he was very afraid. And right now, he didn't even bother denying it to himself. If his boy was in trouble, then he had every right to be scared, and would be.

"He's alive, if that's what you mean. But don't worry. We're not planning to let him stay that way. Him, or the rest of your children." Pale hands tightened further around the phone. With anger in his voice, Vladimir spoke again.

"What could you _possibly_ hope to gain from this?! Kidnapping my son, threatening my other children, making disturbing phone calls in the middle of the night—Who _is_ this? Who are you? Why are you doing this?" A long pause ensued, during which Vladimir slowly released his grip on the pillow. It fell back onto the bed with a squishy, out-of-place _ploof_.

"…Consider this an exchange of karma. It's retribution, for you choosing to have kids, even though you _knew_ what would happen." Vladimir blinked, confused and still angry.

"I don't know what you're talking…" He shot up, as realization suddenly dawned on him. "You can't mean… But that's _insane_! Slaughtering innocent children will not solve anything! There has to be another way!"

"No, Vlad. No there isn't."

"What about the Hanged Man?"

"He won't say what he needs to. He hasn't spoken in eight years."

"Even so, this doesn't have to be this way! I won't let you harm my son!" There was another pause. Then, quietly, the voice on the other end spoke.

"…What about Naudia? Would you save her?" Likewise, Vladimir calmed down.

"Naudia? What does she—"

"—She's pregnant, Vlad. If you save her, you damn the baby. If you don't, they both die. For our family, there is no other way.

"…I still love you, dad." And he hung up. With an odd, blank look in his eyes, Vladimir stared at the busy-signal bleeping phone.

"…Atlas?"

* * *

_Gasp! What could all of these strange evnts mean? Are they connected? I guess the only way to find out is to STAY TUNED! 8D_


	10. Chicago or Bust

**_Psycho Director: _Yeah. The nooze and letters are still at the bottom. I'ma keepin' it that way... Really. **

**_Rated PG-13:_ Violence, disturbing content**

**WARNING: Some content in this story may not be suitable for readers under 12... ish. Viewer disgression is advised but also strongly frowned upon. 8( **

**BRING IT. Oh, yeah. This takes place around chapter 7-8, where Sophia's asleep and Raz and Vincent are still trying to figure out where they are. The time's going to bounce around a lot in this sotry from now on, for the plot, so you might want to get used to it. Sorry if it bugs you, but it has to be done. For annoyance. **

_

* * *

__The_ full moon shone brightly in the sky, casting its silver rays against the modest wooden cabins of Whispering Rock. Crickets chirped loudly to one another, jumping nimbly from grass blade to blade in the pale glow. The entirety of the camp-goers were tucked in warm in their bunks, out for the night. Bobby snored lightly from his perch on the top bunk, his arm draping loosely off one end. Maloof curled up in a ball against his bottom bunk, while his best friend, Mikhail, lay flat on his back on the top. Dogen was sucking his thumb in his sleep, a habit many had tried—and failed—to break him of. He didn't seem to mind, though, so most left it at that. 

The camp was quiet that night. Even the cougars and bears kept silent, their territories untrampled by hyper children. The only sounds came from those who snored or those who sleep-talked, the latter of which was most prominent in one girl: Lili Zanotto.

Lili didn't sleep well, her blankets crumpled tight against her fists, her eyes screwed shut, and an uncomfortable scowl replacing the normal blank look of a perfect rest. She shifted and turned, flipping first onto one side, then the other, then onto her back, pressing something tightly against her chest.

What she held was a tiny thing; a bracelet of green and yellow knitted yarn just wide enough to slip around someone's wrist. It didn't have much for decoration, aside from a simple crosshatch pattern of different-colored yarn and a few plastic beads tied onto the end. The beads were cheap, with overly pastel colors and prominent seams, but were held painstakingly in place by tiny knots. Anyone who had gone to most any summer camp before could recognize it as a friendship bracelet. It was originally her gift to Raz, but rather than force him to take up the dreaded _knitting _to make one in return, she just took it back—and a dollar. Raz was so relieved at having avoided knitting that he didn't realized he had gotten scammed.

The bracelet had been originally on Lili's wrist as she went to bed, and stayed that way for some time. However, around midnight, her subconscious mind became drawn to the negative clairvoyant auras coming from the bit of yarn. The result had caused her to tear it off and clench it, as her calm dream became a psychic nightmare.

* * *

_Lili had no clue where she was. There were people beside her, but she didn't know them. One was asleep, or unconscious, and lying on a cot. The other was sitting on a cot on the opposite wall, looking at her with bored interest. There were bars in front of her, though, and she pounded on them with her fists._

_"Hey! Let us out! Listen to me!" she cried, but her voice wasn't her own. Her hands weren't her own, either, as she didn't wear leather gloves or a dark jacket. She could only assume that the body she was in wasn't hers, either, especially as she couldn't control its movements. She couldn't even feel anything, either, just see it. Worse, she knew whose body it was. Raz's. That meant those other two guys must be agents. _

_"Where am I? What the _hell's_ going on?" Lili (or was it Raz?) yelled, staring out into the dark hallway just beyond the bars. It was dusty and littered with some trash. A pop can… lint… gum wrappers… and a bright yellow poster, its pastel ad faded severely over time. She had seen it before, somewhere, but she couldn't remember where, and didn't bother. There were more important things._

_"Somebody _answer me_!" A few seconds of frustrated silence followed this. After a bit, however, Lili was able to make out the sound of a pair of footsteps some ways down the hall. One was slow, and muffled. The other hit the ground about twice as much as the former, and made odd clicking sounds as it did. There was also a steady dragging, chiming sound of metal against rough rock. Gradually the sounds came closer and closer, until Lili and Raz could make out who—or what—they were._

_One was a person, a woman done up in a doctor mask and white coat. She had snowy white hair, which fell down in long bangs to cover her eyes, and pale skin, giving her an almost angelic appearance. In one hand she dragged along a clunky orange oxygen tank, hoseless, and with its bottom dragging along against the floor. In the other she held a worn black leash, which was attached to a snarling, drooling, vicious-looking Rottweiler. It growled loudly at Raz, raising its haunches and baring its red-stained teeth._

_"Who are you?" Raz asked, but not nearly as demandingly as before. The dog made a half-growl, half-bark warning noise, its amber eyes flashing, and a long sliver of saliva slid from its jaws to the floor, traces of red swirling inside it. Raz gripped the bars tightly, a thin line of sweat forming on his forehead. The black-haired agent, meanwhile, stepped closer, curious. _

_That was when it happened._

_Quickly, as if it had been trained, the beast shot forward, snarling, against the bars. It worked its jowls between two of the metal poles, clamping its fangs, vice-like, against Raz's forearm. Lili screamed (in the waking world, she even went so far as to give a yelp and roll off her bed). Blood sprayed out, speckling Raz's jacket and the Rottweiler's muzzle. With a sudden twist of its neck and a jump step back, the mongrel jerked Raz forward by his arm, so hard that his head slammed against the bars (_Thank God for that helmet, _Lili had just enough time to think). Dazed and screaming, Raz darted his eyes up and, as such, he and Lili saw the same thing at the same time._

_The nurse looked at him at the same moment he and Lili looked at her. For once, both he and Lili's shrieks stopped. The nurse… terrified them. With her hair blocking her face, she looked fine. But brought that close up, the two could see something terrifying—her mouth and eyes all had huge, ugly, poorly placed stitches sealing them shut. The stitches were mostly black and red with congealed blood, with only bits of tan in some spots. The same blacks and reds lined the holes they had been sewn onto, which had been worn into buttonhole-like slits. From beyond, her eyes were open just a little bit, and red irises flashed rapidly back and forth. The rest of her face was also lined with ugly white and red scars, including one long one which ran straight down from the middle of her neck beyond where the coat's collar was. Red-black puncture wounds curved down the right side of her face, from above her eyebrow to the center of her cheek, making seven in all._

_Then it was over. Raz's head shot back, and the split-second sight was once again lost under her long hair. The fiery pain came back, and his body convulsed. The other agent had shot his hand out under Raz's bitten arm, jamming his thumb and forefinger on either side of the beast's bloody jaws. He pinched them towards each other fiercely and tightly, fitting them into just the right part of the dog's jaw and forcing it open a bit wider. Raz jerked back, and Lili's vertigo exploded as he tumbled back into the wall, cradling his bloodied up arm. _

_The agent let out a loud obscenity, kicking the dog square in the snout and sending it reeling back. It slid back a few paces, but neither went after him or attacked the nurse. Instead, it just lay there, lower body in the air and growling slightly. The agent spat at it, flicked the rim of his nose with his thumb, then strode over to Raz. _

_Vertigo restored, Raz lifted his eyes up to look at the nurse, his vision pulsing white with every heartbeat. His eyes widened as he saw that, during the fight, she had put on a gas mask. They darted to the oxygen tank, and he quickly made the connection (as did Lili). His arm was screaming and throbbing, his head pounding both in the front (from hitting the bars) and back (from hitting the wall). Still, he made grandiose gestures towards the nurse, his head swinging back and forth between her and the agent, and he tried to speak._

_"V-Vincent!" he cried out, then grunted in pain. The agent—Vincent—only looked at his arm._

_"Damn, these things are deep. Bleeding like a bitch, too." He began tearing off the edge of the jacket of his blue suit. The nurse was reaching for the valve of the tank. Lili was screaming for the_

_(stupid, stupid)_

_agent to turn around. Raz cried out, stretching an unbitten hand to the nurse._

_"_NO!_" he yelled, but it was too late. Vincent turned his head to the side, just in time to see the valve get turned. With a loud _psssh_, the contents of the tank spilled out into the hallway and cell. Vincent shot to his feet, leaving Raz on the ground. His hearing was fuzzy, his sight whitening, and the gas made him feel funny. The wall felt softer, the pain in his arm ebbed away, and he got an odd feeling, like his mind was being filled with cotton._

_They say hearing is the last thing you lose, and that was true in Raz's case. But they never mentioned it couldn't fuzz over, and that was also true in his case. He heard Vincent yelling curses at the nurse, he heard the whispering rush of the gas, and he heard the_

_(horrible, stupid)_

_dog barking. He could see, sure, but it was fuzzy, as if he needed to wear glasses something fierce. Vincent's arms were waving—they left ghostly trails in their wake, like paintbrush strokes. Then Vincent collapsed in front of the door, as if he fainted. Raz's ears were ringing annoyingly, but over that he clearly heard the swift, clanking sound of the door being slid open shortly after this. He watched as the nurse crouched down in front of Vincent, doing... something... to his limp arm. _

Get up… run… _his sleepy mind coaxed him, further emphasized by Lili's unheard yells. _Now's your chance… _But Raz couldn't. His legs wouldn't respond, and he wasn't sure he wanted them to. The ground was far more comfortable than it should have been, and the pain in his arm (it had been in pain, right?) had faded. He felt no urges at all to move. He had collapsed on the couch after a hard day's work, and a few minutes' nap before homework couldn't hurt. _

_Something in his mind, however, got through, and forced his eyes open. He saw a white figure… an angel? Doubtful. He watched, dumbly unresponsive, as the lady pulled out a large syringe of something black and gooey like molasses. She wiped the needle—it caught the light, not unlike the classic lens flare of a sword in the sun. Raz thought nothing of it as the entire contents of the syringe were injected into the vein in his wrist, too far gone to worry. It made him feel lightheaded, and he fell forward, out cold. The last thing he saw before blacking out was her mouth beyond the worn stitches. It might have been his imagination, but he could have sworn he saw her smile.

* * *

_

"Raz! _No_!" Lili yelled, shooting up into a sitting position. Gasping for air, her head twisting about, it took her a full five seconds to realize that she wasn't in some prison somewhere, being gassed and shot with something. Instead, she was still at camp. With a sigh, she pressed a hand against her chest. Her heat was thumping rapidly, as if it were trying to hammer its way out of her. Her other hand, meanwhile, was gripping the bracelet so hard her knuckles were white.

All around Lili's shock-frozen body, with tired groans and shuffling, the other girls woke up. Phoebe, Milka, and Crystal, upon seeing Lili's terrified face, immediately jumped off their beds and ran to her side. In their own… _unique_ way, they each tried to provide support while getting their own questions answered.

"Hey, Lil, what's wrong? Bad dream?" Phoebe started. Lili didn't answer, but just stared at the wall, flashes of the dream passing through her mind like lightning bolts. Phoebe waved her hand in front of her face, but to no avail. She finally stated, "Man, she's _long_ gone," and Crystal was next.

"Hey, there, girlfriend!" she cheered, bright and peppy despite the late hour. "You wanna' know what I do when I'm upset? I just put it all into perspective! After all, in this big world we live in, we, and all of the events surrounding us, are just like tiny, useless grains of sand! We're just one teeny-tiny part of the world, which can be cut off in an instant and no one would notice! So don't be sad! I'm sure it's not important." Milka and Phoebe shot her a strange look, eyebrows raised, then decided to ignore her and turn back to Lili.

"Lili, would you like to talk about it? But, if you don't want to, you know, that's OK," Milka muttered in her quiet voice. Lili still didn't say anything, and continued to stare blankly… Until she received a thrown pillow across the face. As one, the four girls looked up to the thrower in question—Kitty. She pouted at them.

"Could someone please tell Little Miss Creepy to stop acting like she's being possessed? It's not like we've never had a bad dream before." Chloe, from her spot perched on the top bunk, frowned back at her.

"On my home planet, people weren't so arrogant about nightmares. Our super-advanced minds are able to pick up on certain brainwaves from other inhabited planets while we sleep, so dreams are painstakingly analyzed in attempts to both triangulate other signs of life and commence research on them. Why—"

"Something bad's happening. And.. and I know where it is." Lili interrupted, her voice misty and unfocused. All of the girls in the cabin, even Franke and Kitty, turned to her. She continued.

"I saw it. I didn't really notice it at first, but there was a poster on the floor in my vision." The other girls mimed confused looks.

"…Vision?" Chloe asked, not really off-put about being interrupted, as what it was for was much more interesting.

"Poster?" Elka added, finally deciding to jump into the conversation. "What kind?" Lili took that question and answered it, clearly on a roll.

"I had seen it before, years ago. It was back when I lived in Chicago, and I went to a circus with my parents. It was called the Galochio Family Circus!" She snapped her fingers in triumph, but the others didn't catch on quite as well as she had hoped.

"…So?" Franke asked, ever the blunt one. However, Lili was patient.

"_So_ get this: that circus was one-of-a-kind! Its acts are _only_ preformed in Chicago! That means the dream must have taken place there, of course! Raz is at Chicago, Illinois!"

* * *

**THE END. So, did you like it? I hope so. It's actually kind of a pain in the butt to get all of the camper's personalities right, but I think I did okay. 8D Crystal's speech made me laugh.**

**Oh, and did you all catch the name of the circus? Pretty strange, aye? I wonder what it could mean... Julia's turning in her own family members... Atlas's phone call... and now this. Can YOU figure it out? I'll bet you can't. I have my own ideas going, here. _Crazy _ideas. But, on the brighter side, we may be seeing more of my favorite sort-of _Psychonauts_ character! You know... the one with the blue skin, and the cool hat...**

**...Name is French, starts with a 'D'...**

**...Is one of the main characters is 'The Three Musketeers' (it's true, I was surprised)...**

**...It's not Dogen (-GASP-)...**

**...And stuff. I'm so looking forward to it. It's going to be great; I've got his entire story planned out. ****I've also got Good Charlotte's 'I Don't Wanna Be In Love' stuck in my head, but I don't mind because the song is awesome. And now, letters.**

_Dear Tashilover (You know, that person... from that place...),_

_Tbbbt. I outsmarted thee. Totally did not ask my Mom for help, nope. Not me. 8D WW3 is fought as all wars are fought... with Chunin Ninja-Carribean Pirate Spartans in the year 10,000 BC. Well, all of the important battles, anyway._

_Oh, so it's an INTERPRETIVE DANCE CONTEST you want, is it?_

_You: No, I was just--_

_BRING IT OOOON! Everybody! Put up your hands! Say, 'I don't wanna be in love! I don't wanna be in love!' Feel the beat now, if you've got nothing left! Say, 'I don't wanna be in love! I don't wanna be in love!' -Boogies down (boogie downs? Boogies downs?)- And the Russians were here because... uh... OH, LOOK! IT'S YOUR MUM! -Bolts-_

_No, I don't think--YES OF COURSE HE DOES OTHERWISE THE BEDBUGS WILL KNOW HIS SECRET IDENTITY--Ger-Man. Saving the world, one weinerschnitzel at a time. And yes, of course there is no connection. At all. Ever._

_NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMES. I will not. D8 Have a nice day._

_Sincerly,_

_Psycho_

**_Dear Nintendo Nut1 (part of this nutricious breakfast!),_**

**_OH NOES! Why, Buddah, why? D8 No, wait. That's a good thing._**

**_O RLY? Well, thanks. I was worried that it would read out kinda stupid, but it was late at the time, so I was all like, "WHATEVS. I'm sleepy." And so it was._**

**_No, it was the cuuuu... Oh, damn. D8 I was hoping to stockpile that with my infinite pile of cliffhangers to be used throughout the story. Aw, well. Good guess--I'm impressed! That's a huge chunk of it (seriously), but that's not all. I've still got a few tricks up my sleeve, like the Hanged Man, his family, and Moses. It's going to be so rad, I'm excited. _**

**_-Gasp- Nununununu! 'Cause, you see, what Raz said during the game about the curse has two meanings. He said, "our family has the curse. Something about how we're all supposed to die in water." Now, this can mean,_**

**_A. They are inevitably going to be killed by the water sometime in their lives_**

**_or..._**

**_B. If (and only if) they come into close proximity with water, then they will die._**

**_See? I see, said the blind man, as he picked up his hammer and saw. Ha, puns are funny._**

**_Aw, thanks. I'm flattered. I just read a whole ton of books, mostly. Now, go! Go to the art! Oh, and have a nice day... and stuff._**

**_Sincerly,_**

**_Psycho_**

**And that's all! Next time: Sasha and Milla get in on the action! You don't want to miss it! 8D**


	11. This Is Your Brain On Drugs

**_Rated PG-13 for DRUGS_! 8D _And Duluth._**

**This is a COMEDY CHAPTER! Because I haven't done one of those since the one with -lol- 'Autn Jemima', and I was starting to miss it. Plus, Sasha's too fun to make fun of. Sorry, all Sasha and Milla fans. 8D **

**_--THIS IS A SCENE DIVIDER BECAUSE THE OTHER ONE KEPT VANISHING ON ME D8--_**

**_Duluth,_ Minnesota, 12:31 AM**

The quiet town of Duluth was especially calm that day, its quaint suburban area nestled peacefully between the state's many lakes. Many people were inside for the night, catching up on their sleep. Only two teenagers, a boy and a girl, were settled on lawn chairs out on their lawn, sipping Pepsis and talking about video games. Oh, and also a loudly yipping dog.

Slowly, with a low growl, a high-flying jet passed over the town. The girl casually glanced upwards, her blonde ponytail falling back past her shoulders and her blue goggles catching the moonlight. With a sigh, she rubbed the arm of her grey striped jacket, its green radioactive symbol faded without the light.

"There it goes again," she muttered, taking another sip of Pepsi. "That's the second one I've heard in a few minutes. Must be having a party." The other teen just nodded, his dusty blonde hair bouncing a little with the movement. He was decked out in camo pants and a light grey T-shirt with clashing black motorcycle gloves.

"Hey Nami, where do you think they're going?" Nami shrugged.

"Beats me, Eric. We'll probably never know." And they never did.

* * *

Later, about ten minutes or so, the same exact jet landed just outside Section 15 of Specter City. It was a pearly white thing, with tinted windows and perfectly round sides. It was a regular Psychonauts model, the TMSM 380 (Thought-Manipulable Standard Model 380). It was also one of four currently in the parking lot of Psychonauts HQ (known to outsiders as the Crimson Permanent Insurance Bureau), the largest number there had ever been at any given time. Most agents took taxis or drove themselves in. 

With a professional air, two agents in cliched black trench coats and sunglasses left out of the top of the TMSM 380, then landed hard on the ground, sending up moderate shock waves. They were unfazed, and abruptly stood up and walked to the entrance of the HQ. Anyone passing by would have considered the pair to be twins, and they, oddly enough, would have been right. But no one did, and so no one commented on the agent's startling alikeness, and so their trek to the building went undisturbed.

Their names were Evgeny and Alexi Galochio.

* * *

"Milla!" Sasha Nein cried simply, stumbling out, still only half-awake, from the algae-covered cave informally known as Make-Out Cave by the campers. With a stumbling sort of grace, he wound his way down the path below the worn wooden docks, darting between spindly white trees. Made unnaturally clumsy by both his rush and his tiredness, he nearly slipped a few times on the tiny yellowed path to the beach, and was all the way to the sandy expanse before he realized…

…It was past midnight. Milla wouldn't be here. As a matter of fact, even after years of partnership, he didn't even know _where_ she would be. He stood on the blue-colored sands, staring out at the murky, navy water of Lake Oblongata, for a long while. He didn't do anything; just stared. He didn't even notice as cocky seagulls waddled past his feet and pants' legs. Slowly, he brought his arms out to either side, then let out a cry. 

"_Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooodammit_!" He yelled over-dramatically into the night sky, sending many seagulls squawking and fluttering into the dark air (only to come back a few minutes later because, let's face it, seagull aren't that bright). 

"For goodness sake, Sasha, you don't need to yell," a voice interrupted, sounding very tired and very Brazilian. Sasha whipped around, and was shocked to discover none other than Agent Vodello herself standing on the beach behind him.

"Agent Vodello?" he asked, confused. "How did you get here so fast?" She laughed and pointed at a rock near the path to the GPC.

"Oh, I live on that rock there." Sasha raised an eyebrow behind his shades, kicking aside a seagull that had been pecking curiously at his shoes. 

"I… see…" he stated slowly, staring weirdly at Milla's overly happy grin. "Well, in any case, that doesn't matter now." In the blink of an eye, he was all business again.

"There's a critical situation at HQ. Agents Jenquin, Tyri, and the Grigori's are dead." Milla clasped her hands to her mouth, a shocked look on her face.

"Oh! Was it assassins?" Sasha began pacing, a nervous habit of his.

"We don't know, but that's what we're assuming. Six agents were sent out on missions. Half are dead, and the other half are MIA. I received the news from Agent Westfield this morning. They had to evacuate HQ and contact anyone involved, including us." Milla gasped, a sudden realization dawning on her. With wide eyes, she spoke back to Sasha, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Morceau and Razputin were at HQ!" Sasha blinked. He had forgotten all about Oleander. He was starting to hate that tiny man. So, because of that, he tried to tick the man off Milla's Worry Radar (patent pending).

"As far as I know, Agent Oleander was with the evacuation." Milla waved her hand, brushing off his comment abnormally casually.

"Sasha darling, you know Morceau just as well as I do. Do you honestly think he would run off when there's trouble brewing? He would be right in the battlefield, swinging his tiny fists." Sasha sighed.

"Either way, he's not the problem right now."

"Oh, right. The murders."

"…It's more than that. Razputin was one of the missing agents, along with Vincent and Sophia." Milla jerked at this, as if taking a physical blow. She brought one half-closed hand close to her mouth, almost as if wanting to childishly suck her knuckles.

"You mean… Raz… and Sophia… have been kidnapped?"

"We'll be _lucky_ if they're kidnapped. Telepathic communication has been lost from all three. Only a powerful psychic influence could do that." An odd silence followed. Milla didn't speak. Sasha coughed, unsure what to say next. He wondered how Milla knew about Sophia, but then decided that was a question for another time.

"No…" Milla murmured, so quietly Sasha almost missed it. However, he was just able to make out the word, and looked back over to her. She had wrapped her arms around her chest, and was massaging her upper arms.

"No?" he repeated, confused.

"Not just a psychic influence. There's another way. Remember Riverbrook?" Riverbrook, of course. How could he forget? A psychic, David Riverbrook, had been horribly depressed over people chastising him for his psychic powers. In desperation, he turned to a black market drug known as 'Moses'. The drug created an artificial glialcyst directly in a vital artery leading to thesixth-sense accesspart of his mind, and completely cut off any psychic ability. However, as he kept taking it, the growth worsened, growing too fast for his body to wear it away. Eventually, the cyst outgrew the artery, and the artery ruptured. He had a huge, fatal brain aneurysm coupled with an intraparenchymal hemorrhage in only twelve hours after taking the drug. Apparently, Milla had been thinking the same thing.

"You think they're on Moses?" he asked incredulously, going over the possibility in his mind. Milla just nodded.

"If that's true, then… then…" she mumbled. Sasha shook his head, taking one of Milla's hands in his own.

"It's going to be all right, Milla. We don't know for sure if that's what's happening. Besides, Moses was illegalized some time ago, and the corporations selling it were broken up. Only a few agents even know it once existed." He paused again, considering his options. "Still, we'd better hurry. If it's true that they've been kidnapped, well… maybe they were better off like the other three."

"No. If they're still alive, no matter what they're on or where they're at, then there's hope." Sasha let out a long, deep sigh, exasperated and hopeless. Once again, his eyes turned to the water. It seemed oddly menacing in the night light, its depths black like ink. 

"But we don't know where they are! We have no clues, no suspects, no anything! I'll bet no one even bothered to take a DNA scan of any of the victim's bodies! We… _sheißt_… we don't even know where to start looking."

"Then I'll guess you'll need my help." Both adults jumped at the new, high-pitched voice, then spun around. Behind them stood none other than Lili, fresh out of her pajamas and into her old clothes, her hair done up in her famous pigtails and the bracelet in her hand. She wore a smug grin, but there was a strong hint of fear and worry flashing in her eyes.

"Lili, darling, shouldn't you be sleeping by now?" Milla asked, instantly maternal. Lili crossed her arms.

"I was woken up by a nightmare." Milla pursed her lips.

"Oh, sweetie, that's terrible. I'd love to help you, and I'm sorry, but we're really very busy right no—"

"It was a _clairvoyant_ nightmare." She held the bracelet a little higher, and Sasha and Milla quickly made the connection. Both were struck by twin urges, each as strong as the other. They were an unbelievable curiosity as to what did she see, and a terrified urge not to know. In response to their reluctance, Lili stashed the bracelet, then walked a bit closer to them.

"I figured out where my boyfriend and your agents are at. So, I can tell you… but in return, I'm coming with." Sasha and Milla shared uncomfortable looks to each other, than Milla crouched down to Lili's level.

"Lili, I don't think that's such a fabulous idea…"

"Well why not?" she yelled angrily. 

"Because you're ten years old, inexperienced, and we would be held legally responsible if anything would happen to you," Sasha responded coolly. Lili, though, wasn't bought off so easily.

"You didn't see what I did! You didn't see the lady with the stitches, or that big mutt, or the black gunk in the shot! My _boyfriend_ is in big, _big_ trouble, and I'm _not_ going to just stand here and let that happen! I… What's with you guys? Hello?" Milla and Sasha had gone deathly still.

"Black… gunk?" Sasha repeated. Lili rolled her eyes.

"Yeah. Like, half a shot-full of it. It was so gross. Why?" Lili stared up at the German Psychonaut, who frowned. He was never more grateful for his sunglasses then at that moment, where Lili couldn't fully see his expression.

"Was this, by any chance… What did it look like?" Lili raised an eyebrow at this, but nevertheless answered.

"Jeez, I don't know… It was pretty goopy, like melting ice cream. I could see it dripping off the edges of the shot when the stitches-lady tilted it. And, uh, it had some bubbles, but they were all syrupy and gross. And… oh, yeah! It kinda' left this weird purple residue on the side of the shot. Sound familiar?" Sasha still didn't answer, but instead sent a telepathic message to Milla.

_It sounds like Moses. _It didn't take long for Milla to send her reply.

_I hate to say it, but I totally agree. And did you catch that? Half a syringe's worth?_

_Yes. That's more than Riverbrook. A lot more._

_But he took his nearly every hour, according to the autopsy. We don't know how often the case in Lili's dream may have been._

_Either way, we have to hurry. The cysts caused by Moses develop incredibly fast. _

_…How long do you think we have?_

_I'd give twelve hours at best. Any later, and the damage caused by those lumps could be permanent, if not fatal._

"Are we taking the jet?" Milla asked, directly after their conversation.

"Hell _yes,_ we're taking the jet," Sasha smirked, ever so slightly, more just a tug on the corner of his mouth than anything else.

"…What?" Sasha coughed into his fist, his grin vanishing.

"Err, nothing. Let's go."

* * *

**THE END. Oh, I mean, To Be Continued. With 50 percent less comedic effect. 8(**

**Wagh. I'm sick again. D8 This really sucks, dude. Every time I cough I feel like puking, and every time I breathe I feel like coughing. It's a hideous chain of sickness. But, on the brighter side, I got to stay home from school today. 8D Me not need no edukashun! So, fully utilizing my day off time, I have created for you... A NEW CHAPTER! Man, I really did my homework on this one. This started off as just a thought (how can Moses cut off psychic abilities? By cutting off the blood flow...? Sure. But how would it do that? A growth? What kind?) and grew into all of this scientific stuff. I feel so smart now. 8D But, for those of you who don't know half the words I used, here is a quick guide:**

**Glial Cyst: A closed sac filled with air, semi-solid material, or fluids (like blood). If it's filled with pus, it's called an abscess. Glial cysts are in the brain.**

**Brain Aneurysm: The condition of havinga blood-filled bulge in a blood vessel, caused by disease or weakening of the cell wall. Its chances of exploding increase as it gets bigger. When taking Moses, the bulge completely blocks off the entire vein, resulting in the inability to use ESP. However, the blood pressure caused by this further increases the risk of the vein rupturing. The body instintively sends antibodies to wear away the outer membrane of the bulge and free the blood inside, but if the drug is used at a steady rate, the growth rapidly grows faster than it is weared away, and the vein ruptures, resulting in intraparenchymal hemorrhaging.**

**Intraparenchymal Hemorrhage: Bleeding inside the brain tissue, which can be caused by penetrating trauma (like the cyst) among other things, and often leads to a hemorrhagic stroke. The rate of death is 40 percent.**

**Hemorrhagic Stroke: A stroke caused by a brain hemorrhage--bleeding in the brain.**

**Woo. MIT degree, here I come!**

**In other news, I CANNOT WAIT FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER! 8DDD My overuse of the letter 'D' should serve to show you how much I cannot wait for it. Why? That's simple.**

**_Because it has D'artagan_. And Raz, Sophia, and Vincent finally have something important happen to them (no, it's not a brain aneurysm or any other sort of hemorrhage). And because D'art's LAST NAME is revealed. 8O Go on. Take a guess at what it is.**

**Wait, I forgot something... Oh, yeah! Letters! And The Optimistic Pessimist Molly-Person is back! Let's all give her a hand, for the familiar trio of reviews is now... more... three-ish. Yay.**

_Dear TheOptimisticPessimist (Woo!),_

_I don't have a 'threatre' class, so I can't say I know how you feel. 8( But, hey, at least you know WHAT to major in. I don't even know what TYPE of collage I want to go to (but I'm thinking four-year), let alone what to major/minor in. I know I probably want to get a Bachelor's degree, though. Those things are WIN. You can do, like, anything with one of those. Except for figure out what o major/minor in. Graphic design? Game design? Storyboarding? Illustrating? Editing? Some form of writing? Child Care? Theatre Arts? Psychology? Oh, they all sound so good (except for maybe the last one). There's just so... much... stuff in collage. It's like going into GameStop and being told you can only pick two games, but there are all of these great ones like _Super Smash Bros. Brawl _and _Okage: Shadow King _and _Pokemon Diamond/Pearl _and _Super Paper Mario _and _Kingdom Hearts: Birth By Sleep _(because I suddenly have a PSP now and it's suddenly out) and... Gaaaah. Collage. _

_8D So it's a POKEMON BATTLE you want, aye?_

_MollyPerson used Random Spaz Attack! It'snotveryeffective... __What willPsycho do? _

_**-Fight**  
__-PKMN  
-Item  
-Run_

_**-Shoop Da Whoop  
**-Missingno.  
-Ultimate Sacred Technique of the Land Hidden In a Box of Cracker Jacks  
-Whine_

_Psycho used Shoop Da Whoop! It's super effective!_

_MollyPerson used Mowing The Lawn Around The Tent! Psycho became confused!_

_Psycho is confused! Psycho sued Change The Subject! Critical hit! _

_...No, I haven't been playing _Pokemon _lately. What could make you think that? And I don't know... That whole drowning thing? I'm not sure if that would work. Still, only one way to find out. -Pulls out a shotgun and grins maniacally- Oh, Raaaz_

_D-apostrophy-A-R-T-A-G-A-N. And, yep. He was supposed to be the main character, but was canceled because his hat was hard to animate and everybody said he looked like a girl (which he DOES NOT). Plus, the renderign kind of makes him look like an ugly gremlin. But the concept art is sooo cute (in a weird way), and the rendering would be alright, if it weren't for the fact that they made his skin this hideous flouresent blue. Bleh. And you can see him in-game--I know, I have. Wait until the final scene, after **SPOILERS **Raz becomes a Psychonaut. Then watch the scene where all of the kids are heading to the bus and the camera slowly pans right. Then watch the outhouse. As the kids are leaving, D'art opens the door and peeks his head out, looks around, then rushes back in and slams the door. Not the most dignified scene, but one nonetheless. 8D_

_Yay. See you soon, then!_

_Sincerly,_

_Psycho_

**_Dear Tashilover (Tashil's over what?),_**

**_-Sings along- Naaaa... na-na-na na-na na-na Ka-ta-ma-ri Da-ma-cy! What? Wrong song? Oh, well. Na na naaaa... na-na-na na-na na-na... Ka-ta-ma-ri Da-ma-cy... Na na naaaa..._**

**_Oh, thank you. Glad to see WE WILL NOT FORGET. We will uphold the dream of someday seeing that kid in the big hat in one of his own games... Like Katamari Damacy! 8D That would be... interesting._**

**_Your orange cannot withstand the weight of the fork, says we. 8O_**

**_Sincerly,_**

**_Psycho_**

_Dear Nintendo Nut1 (2, 3, 4! You know what we're fighting for! Redcliff County Cougars! Cougars!),_

_-Nods- I know what you mean. Drowning sucks. Now, if I was cursed to die as an old lady while I slept that'd be pretty awesome... but drowning sucks._

_Yay! Glad you liked them. THEY'LL NEVER APPEAR AGAIN. D8 _

_Yaaaaay again. I managed to creep someone out. I feel all warm and fuzzy inside now._

_...Dogen? No, you were wrong. It was D'art. But here's your consolation prize--a coupon for 50 percent off all napkins at Taco Time! -applaudes- I love the little tacos. I love them GOOD. _

_Yes. Yes they do._

_I do, too. 8D You just keep on truckin' with that, and I will, too. Keep on truckin', truck, truck, truckin'... And remember what my Mum says. If you have a part in the furture of a story you wantto do, don't be afraid to go out of order. Lots of writers bounce around in their stories. I did with this one. I finished chapters 13 and 14 before I finished 12. It was sweet. _

_And that is all. Good day to you._

_Sincerly,_

_Psycho_

**Finally, it's over! And you lived through it--good for you! **


	12. We've All Got Our Problems

_**Psycho Director: **_**Hello... Yeah, that's it.**

_**Rated PG-13: Strong language, violence, hints at inhumanitarian practices. And Vincent. His presence alone is enough to jack up a rating.**_

**ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

"_**Grr… **_**Psyblast!** _Psyblast!_ I said _psyblast_, goddamn you!" Vincent glared daggers at the barred wall; two fingers pressed so tightly against his forehead that they left pink marks in their wake. Raz and Sophia, meanwhile, simply looked boredly at him, while sitting together on the bottom bunk. Finally, after he had resorted to pacing back and forth in front of the bars, Sophia added in her two cents.

"Face it; they're gone. Something they did to us makes us unable to use our powers. I kind of expected it, you know, seeing as they knew who we were and where we were at." Vincent sighed at this, knowing Sophia was right but too proud to admit exactly it to her. With a definite slump in his shoulder, he plopped down on the bottom bunk on the right side, putting Sophia in the middle of the three.

"I guess… but… God, this place sucks." Sophia nodded glumly, and Raz gently pressed his fingers to his lower arm. A few tense seconds of silent brooding remained, before Sophia happened to glance over at Vincent's opposite hand, and gasped.

"Vincent! Your hand!" Vincent shot her a confused look, then looked at his fingers, which were oozing fresh blood from their tips in round globs.

"Well, how about that? Must have burst open when I was moving them. Shit." He carefully rubbed the blood on them around the edges of the cuts, forming a red coat. Raz stared at them, then whistled.

"Wow. That must hurt." In response, Vincent only shrugged. He then brought the reddened digits to his mouth, and carefully blew on them. The red droplets trembled, but stayed where they were. After a few seconds, Vincent brought them back down again, and wiped the blood off on the side of his pants leg.

"Yeah, a little. Not nearly as much as yours, though, I'd guess. How's it feel?" Raz bit his lip, then slowly poked his arm. He winced as the pressure of his finger bit into the bite wound, but otherwise did nothing. Curious, Sophia also looked down at the pained limb, wondering when it was possible for the two to get injured.

"It hurts… like, a lot. Kind of throbbing, too. Ah, ow!" Raz yelped as he accidentally poked the wound too hard, and it let out a fiery burst of pain. He muttered a curse under his breath (making sure Sophia wouldn't hear), then rolled up his sleeve.

Sophia gasped. Just beyond the dark material of his jacket, his skinny arm was wrapped in a twisting spiral of white bandages. They had bled through in many places, most prominently in a huge browned oval shape where the teeth marks were, stretching halfway across the arm.

"Raz…" she muttered, not taking her eyes off the mark. Vincent laughed, suddenly, making her jump.

"Brave kid! I'm impressed." Raz grinned back, rolling his sleeve back down.

"Thanks." He froze however, as a small sound echoed through the cell. His face turned pale white, and he wrapped a hand around his arm. Vincent's expression mimed his, only this time he thumbed his cut fingers. From beyond, in the dusty hall, something snarled. Something shuffled along the floor, and something scraped past. Sophia glanced back and forth from their scared faces, confused.

"What?" she asked. Vincent answered, his voice unusually whispery and thin. Just two simple words…

"…She's back."

"_What_! You insolent little worm! Your parents made us a strict promise—they simply can't cut us off like this! What about the _brains_?"

It was rather dark in the basement room, but not so dark as to render anyone inside it blind. The room was kind of small, with just enough room for a circular, worn wooden table and matching chairs. A few candles—three—were set on the table, their feeble orange glow casting everything in warm-colored light—the walls, floor, table, and the three sitting at the table. Oddly, only one of the candles was lit at any point in time, the bit of fire jumping from wick to wick in a steady triangle. Each time it jumped, the light brought one of three people in the room's face into brighter focus than the other two.

Two of the three people in the room were a familiar pair to the eyewitnesses of the incident about a month ago at Thorny Towers Insane Asylum shortly after it mysteriously burned down. The pair were none other than Crispin Whytehead and Caligosto Loboto, the only two there who had seemed… well, not evil, in Crispin's case, but nevertheless unpleasant. While Crispin kept a slightly annoyed cool, leaning back with his arms eternally crossed in his chair, Loboto was a tad more aggravated at the third person.

He was a little boy, about the same age as Raz (maybe a little younger), with pallid blue skin hidden under an outrageously large green and yellow striped stocking cap. He also wore a blue shirt with gold buttons, and brown shorts. The yellow clump of yarn at the end of the cap swayed back and forth as he spoke, his prepubescent voice calm and even, even as he stared at the flame. Given a less obessesive conversation for Loboto and Crispin to focus on, they might have felt as if the boy was making the flame move himself... and, oddly, they'd be right.

"Whether you get brains or not isn't my problem, Mister—"

"_Doctor_!" Loboto interrupted, slamming his fist on the table and sending the flame of the candles quivering. The boy only blinked. If he had been at all startled by the interruption, he didn't show it, and continued on with naught but a draw of breath and an accent at the first word.

"_Doctor_ Loboto. You see, the Spades don't need your help anymore. They have what they need. So why don't you just scat, and I won't have to have you kicked out? If I were you, I'd take the option that doesn't involve my dignity being shredded."

"We made an agreement!"

"Really? Funny. I can't seem to remember. Too bad we didn't write it down or anything."

"W-write…? You tricky louse! It was a mutual agreement!" The child pushed his chair back with a tired _creak_, then stood up, cracking his fingers lazily. He cast a casual smirk at Loboto and Crispin, the latter of which still did not say anything. Satisfied at Loboto's outraged expression, he turned around towards the exit.

"If all you wanna do is whine, then I don't have anything more to say to you, gentlemen. Good-bye." He began walking, to Loboto's angry yells.

"Your _parents_ will hear about this blasphemy, De-arteeghan!" That made the boy stop. Slowly, he turned just a bit and shot Loboto a positively murderous look, making him gulp and a line of sweat start appearing on his forehead. The boy spoke again, slowly and poisonously.

"My mom's dead. My dad has barely spoken for as long as I can remember. Those people you're talking about aren't my parents. We don't share any blood at all." He started to walk again, then paused, considering something.

"Oh, yeah. One more thing. It's not pronounced 'De-arteeghan'. It's D'artagan. Remember it." And with that, D'artagan left.

_All right, that takes care of those asylum guys, _D'art thought to himself as he power walked down the dirty basement halls, mentally checking off a box on a list. _Now I just have to find out a way to get past Big Sis's security. That should be easy. She just hires those freaks from the circus; the ones who are barely even human. She won't get rid of them because they're 'pure'—yeah, right—but they're not good for anything. Even guarding. _D'art smirked to himself as he increased his pace down the halls to a slow jog. It was true. He had watched them when they had first been 'born'. The smoke in the air, the fire, the panicked family running past and through him as if they didn't even recognize him, the half-human, insane creatures rushing into the night…

His smirk disappeared, to be replaced by a sorrowed and afraid frown. D'art looked around the empty hallway, subconsciously searching for somewhere to hide while the memory was still fresh in his mind. Sure, watching the tents blossom red and puke up black scared him, and he'd be lying if he said that Mr. Saguaro hadn't make him shriek like a girl, but they weren't the worst part. The worst was that blue tent, the one with the orange stripes and thick fabric. The worst was running up to the tent, scratched and bleeding, screaming himself hoarse for help. The worst was tearing open the flap and sprinting in, but freezing once he saw what was in the tent where his own family _should_ have been. The worst was…

"No! Don't think about that!" D'art scolded himself aloud firmly. Mentally, he cut off his mind from pursuing the memory further than the tent flap, not allowing himself to open it, even in a memory. He wouldn't even allow himself the comfort of slipping into a fetal position at the memory, like he had for almost a month afterwards. Instead, he stumbled over and pressed his pale forehead against the cool stone wall. He didn't cry—he _couldn't_ cry—but his shoulders shook and he scrunched his face up tight. His memory prodded curiously at the flap, even though it knew what was beyond it. D'art kept it at bay.

His family had suffered because of some dumb curse. Now, so were other people, people just like him. He didn't know them, but he did know what the smell of combusting tent cloth was like. He knew the smell of a psycho's breath a few inches from his own face. He knew hopelessness.

So when he heard a scream and a dog barking, he ran towards it, security be damned.

"Keep away from us, you crazy bitch!" Vincent yelled in his own, colorful way, shooting a deadly glare at the albino woman. If she heard him, she didn't show it. Instead, she kept walking forwards, her head down and feet shuffling as if ashamed. Once again, her long bangs covered the ugly scars and stitches on her face, so that only Raz knew what was under the white veil.

The dog snarled viciously at the trio, its fangs still red with an ill-gotten snack. Raz bit his lip at the unwelcome face, rubbing the lower part of his arm subconsciously. If he hadn't known better, he could have sworn that the murderous beast was smiling at him. Still, he wouldn't take the bait, and sat firmly on the bunk. Sophia, however, stood up and walked forwards.

"No!" Raz yelled, holding out a hand to her. She shot him a curious look, but gratefully stopped about a foot behind Vincent—safely out of the way of those fangs.

The nurse didn't even acknowledge the female agent, nudging her head ever-so-slightly to the orange tank of what Raz knew to be sleeping gas. She wasn't going to waste time with the mutt anymore. She'd go straight to the gassing, then the drugging. He could even see the syringes shining on her belt, only partially hidden by her smock. Only one state to the north, hidden in the lush pine forests of Redcliff County, Wisconsin, three people could have correctly identified the syrupy black drug and its effects, down to the very last headache. Still, Raz couldn't. For all he knew, it was something designed to slowly and painfully kill him, and he wouldn't be that far from the truth.

"Ma'am, please! Let us out! We have to go home!" Sophia tried to plead, oblivious to the nurse's previous events. The nurse still didn't look at her. Instead, her latex-gloved hand strayed towards the side of her smock, where her gas mask lay. Sophia saw this, and made the connection. Her face paled.

"No, don't! We're innocent!" She attempted to reach the nurse, but the dog growled rather ferociously at her, ready to attack at any moment. Sophia bit her lip, Vincent seemed to be seriously considering trying to hit the nurse himself (the Rottweiler be damned), and Raz just sat there, rubbing his arm. She pulled out the mask, its deformed face staring blankly up at her from her hands.

It was then that the nurse's mask lit on fire. Now, a normal person would have probably panicked and thrown the thing to the ground, yelping. But the nurse was not, in any way, normal. Instead of even moving around, she just pulled her palms slightly apart. The mask, then, fell limply to the ground, smoldering red at her feet.

"Man, you're creepy, Broken," a voice stated. The nurse (Broken?) lifted her head slightly at the new voice, then slowly turned around. There, standing just a few feet away, was D'artagan, his hand at his forehead in the classic peace-sign pose. The kind that, if he brought his pointer and middle finger just a bit closer together, would look like a gun to his head. All of the agents thought of the pose as they saw the blue-skinned ten-year-old. It wouldn't strike them until later how, even though Raz often took that same pose when using his powers, it only seemed so suicidal when with D'art.

Speaking of which, D'art gratefully put the hand down. Instead, he used his other's thumb in a casual jerk forward. "Go on," he stated in his same, casual tone. "Get out of here already. I'll take care of the Aquato brat and the agents. _Go_." As if on cue, the nurse whipped her head, first behind her, then towards D'art, then back behind her. Then, almost like she was afraid she would be stopped, she bolted off down the dark hallways, her feet barely making any sound as they slammed against the dirt over and over. Her dog trailed along behind her, barking and howling. She left the tank behind.

"So, then." D'art cleared his throat, as if to draw the attention of the agents. Slowly, leisurely, he drew out a single silver key from the pocket of his brown shorts. He whistled a catchy tune as he fiddled with the lock, as if simply unlocking his front door. He had to stand on tiptoes to reach it. It made a _clank_, _clatter_ noise as it hit the ground, and the door swung open with a heavy _creak_. Sophia and Vincent brightened instantly and ran out, the former practically skipping.

"Oh, thank you so much! You're so nice!" Sophia exclaimed at D'art, giving him a practically glowing look. He didn't even meet her eye. Instead, he was glaring daggers at Raz, who glared right back from the bunk.

"Yeah, thanks a ton," Vincent grudgingly admitted, but gave up when he saw he wasn't going to get an answer, either. He decided instead to watch the two boys be angry with each other. As such, the two agents steooed casually a little way to the side, not even aware of how close they were to each other.

Slowly, Raz stood up from the bunk, then walked towards the exit, never losing eye contact with D'art. He passed the door, then stood between D'art and the two agents, who were now both watching. He still didn't speak or stop scowling as he grabbed one of the bars of the door. He held onto it for about three seconds, matching D'art's look of hate. Finally, with a sudden burst of strength, he slammed it shut with a huge clanging _bang_.

Sophia and Vincent both cried out, covering their ears, but D'art didn't even flinch, and neither did Raz. Still, despite their solemn appearances, Raz's grip on the door left his knuckles white, and D'art's arms were shaking slightly with buried rage.

"Razputin, what's gotten _into _you?" Sophia gasped, recovered from the loud noise. "He's trying to help us! There's no need to get angry." Like D'artagan, Raz didn't even notice her.

"So," he finally spoke, his voice positively dripping with anger, "how have you been? Been to any _bonfires_ lately?" D'art flinched slightly at this, but held his ground.

"Oh, yes," he responded in the same, sarcastic tone. "It went _swimmingly_. I would have invited you, but there had been rain a while ago, and there was a risk that there'd still be puddles left over." Raz sighed melodramatically at this.

"That's too bad. I could have invited my _parents_."

"I wouldn't. I was hoping to serve some drinks. My _Grandpa_ really loves a glass of _ice water_ in the afternoon. Maybe your Grandpa could come, and they could share some stories. Oh, wait, I forgot. He died." Raz's whole body was shaking now, his fists the hardest of all. D'art's insult had hit home. Still, the boy in the stocking cap couldn't help but add salt to the wound.

"Just like everyone else, eh, Aquato?"

"Kid, what's he—" Vincent began, but Raz had had enough.

"It's _your_ fault! _You _did this to my family! _You're _the reason I can't take a bath, or learn to swim… Thanks to _you_, I can barely even drink a glass of water! So stop trying to help us, because the last thing I need is someone like you around, _Galochio_." And with that, he spat on the ground, then walked away.

He made it about three steps before D'art spoke up, his voice sarcastic.

"You might want to look where you're going." Raz opened his mouth to answer, but cu off when he suddenly felt a very huge, very solid weight slam into his face. He cried out and fell flat on his rear, rubbing his nose and checking for blood (there was none). Vincent laughed, Sophia yelped, and he distinctly heard D'art scoff, "…there's a wall there." He stood up slowly, growling things that sure weren't condolences under his breath.

There was a _whoosh _noise from behind him then, followed by a sudden surge of warm orange light. Raz turned around, only to see D'art levitating a baseball-sized fireball in his hand with a positive smug grin plastered on his (_stupid ugly GALOCHIO_) face. What was worse, Vincent and Sophia were at his sight, drawn to the new light like moths.

"It only gets darker further in. Unless you're into echolocation, I'd recommend you get over yourself and join the cool kids' party." Raz rubbed his nose, mumbling one more thing no one else could quite hear, before grudgingly speaking up.

"…Fine. But rest assured, once we're above ground, I'm going to shove that fireball into your eye socket and turn your brain into popcorn." D'art just laughed.

"I'm looking forward to it. And if I'm feeling generous, I might not even use hydrokinesis." He was still chuckling as he started walking, already adopted to his new role as the band's new composer.

* * *

**Hello! 8D I'll bet you didn't see that coming, did you? DID YOU? Molly, you don't count, because you **_**obviously**_** cheated in guessing the revelation.Cheating being physically impossible is no excuse. Your bacon porbably infiltrated my house, Rainbow 6 style, sneaked a peek at the data on my laptop, then **_**ate the last Pop-Tart**_**. That was low, girl. Low.Pop-Tarts are delicious, and I love them so. D8**

**In other news, I got two questions for you guys, which I'd like to put up to a vote. Why? Becausein America, we do things as a**_**democracy**_**. We **_**vote**_**. We **_**express our liberties and freedoms**_**. We**_**eat potato chips.**_

_**"America: Making Vegetables Unhealthy Since 1992!" ...**_**And probably sooner, but I wasn't alive at that time, so I can't prove it. Even then, I was only alive for, like, the last month of 1992 (that's December), and I only got memories from 1995 and up, if that. **

**Remember, if you don't vote, each poll has their own conciquences for it. On the other hand, if you do, they both have snazzy rewards. Ooh, motivation and conciquence! Incentive and blackmail! The American Way! ...I love my country so much. 8D**

**So, here are the two issues:**

**1. Sophia and Vincent: sworn rivals or in-denial couple?I don't mean to be stereotyping (OMG! A GUY N GURL DUN LIEK ECAH UTHER TEY MUST B IN LUV!), but the more I write them, the more the two sides start looking evenly tempting. So what do you think? Too Mary-Sue? Orfluffy sugar-sweet?**

**CONCIQUENCE: A G-man drop-kicks an orphaned puppy. He'll do it, he's crazy.**

**REWARD: Your least favorite character gets punched in the face. By moi.**

**2. OK, later in the story, there's a flashback to D'art's traumatized past. This, I warn you, is detailed and way long. As in, 3-4 chapters long, which is 2-3 more than I thought it would be. So what do you want to focus on for the next chapter? Go on with the present, in a chapter that dabbles in what's happening to Sasha, Milla, and Lili, then cuts back to Raz and co.? Or go to the flashback, because now you're all curious and it's a good spot to put it in, as D'art was just thinking about it? The choice... is yours. However, if you choose to skip the flashback for now, you'll be waiting a bit longer for a new chapter, asI haven't exactly finished it yet. **

**CONCIQUENCE: You will make present-D'art cry. He's had a traumatic past, and you don't even care--jerk. Do you want to live with that? DO YOU? **

**REWARD: D'art gets a cake. And a very delicious and moist one, at that.**

**(These can be switched around with Raz, depending on which one you like more.)**

**So, there you have it. Holy crap, this is getting long. And I haven't even gotten to the letters yet! I'd better do that.**

_Dear Nintendo Nut1 (I'm running out of puns... help me...),_

_Huzzah indeed. There is only one acception I have found to that rule, and that is because the angst is balanced out with action and... more action... Anyway, it's _Cursum Perficio_. If I could write like that, I could... write better... I should have thought out that sentence before I wrote it down. _

_I second that. 8D And here I thought waking up in the middle of the night made you _less _active. It seemsI am wrong. Scary and impossible as that may seem, it is true. I am saddened by this._

_...Hypothetical question, right? I know D'art, for we have held many Super Bowl parties together. He always made the best dip... Am I joking, or schizophrenic? Who knows... Who knows..._

_In any case, DO IT. It actually turned out weird for me when I tried it in _The Shadow Complex_, but pretty great in this one. I guess it just depends. In any case, I'm off to tally votes! Whee_

_Sincerly,_

_Psycho_

_**Dear Tashilover (Who this be? Where be I? Who be you?),**_

_**A-yep. Don't worry, he's just that way for comedic effect. When he pops up again, he'll be back to regular ol' Agent Smith--I mean Nein. And yeah, I'm kind of feeling that, too. Sorry. Still, after the flashback, things'll start calming down plot-wise a bit. There will be action, but action you can understand. Sort of like when you're playing chess and carrying out all of these complex orders, then all of the pieces suddenly come to life and start shooting at each other with Kalishnokovs and AK-47's because it turns out the white pieces cursed the black pieces to die in water and the black pieces keep shooting other black pieces in this suicide manuver and one of the white pieces is hanging out with the black pieces for reasons unknown and all of these gray pieces are wandering around outside of the field and trying to figure out the game and two gray pieces and a black are in danger of their heads exploding and they can shoot each other with death beams... sort of. **_

_**O RLY? What a coincidence! When I first got sick, we thought it was food poisoning, too, because everyone in the family got sick on the same day. However, everyone EXCEPT ME got better right away, so that's probably only a little of the issue. I swear, sometimes I just want to KICK A BABY KITTEN! D8 Though the concern is greatly appreciated, really. I just have this headache, and sinus pressure and.. grr... DSLKADHJFHDKLA! -Waves arms around-**_

_**...Kay, I'm over it.**_

_**Ooh, thanks. I gotta' say, it's pretty fun. I've always personally been really curious about it. And, yes. Yes I will. So, in order...**_

_**Michael Jackson, because he thinks little psychic boys are just dee-li-shus. His mom, because he wouldn't call and he knows she worries. And simply put: Olay, because he's worth it. There, all of the cliffhangers have been solved. I'm going home. Wait, I'm already here. That was fast. Later, then. **_

_**Sincerly,**_

_**Psycho**_

_Dear TheOpti... Molly (Yes, I'm getting steadily lazier when it comes to typing names),_

_No, it was Galochio. Your bacon plainly read the name wrong, and VICTORY IS MINE. Mua. Mua ha ha. MUA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA--hack- -cough- Oh, fudge. Thanks for the concern! I'd gladly take your acidic bacon grease, but I just finished... waxing... my hat... And it does appear to be burning its way through the pan, aye? -Points-_

_D8 You're a monster. The Pokemanz... they need you..._

_Oh, darn. I cannot best that, except for--OMG I'M EATING THEM RIGHT NOW AS WE SPEAK/TYPE/WHATEVER! No? Then prove me wrong._

_...You're right. When coming up with pain, you need naught more than a hard, metal, spade-like device. And me with my silly plot and science. -Picks up a shovel- Well, I'm off to re-wax my hat. If anyone calls, tell them I died. Okay? Thanks. You're a doll. Oh, and speaking of death bed, I think you should know. I couldn't afford one of those darn things just because I'm dying (What? Really? D8). I'm on the deathcouch, playing my Game Boy. Well, you didn't honestly expect me to just sit there and whine, did you? But if you say so, I will leave this couch. I need to get some more soda, anyway._

_Hey, hey. I know what will get your mind off Mikhail and Maloof. Let's go to Russia and Hairless Bear Hunt with the junior Mafia! That always makes me feel better._

_Aye. But you could search for 'D'art' on DA, too. There are these two dudes--Shadoe-28 and Charmer-the-ED--and they got some cool art of the blue dude. He and his hat. _

_With all of the potato chip power do I respond to you rstatements with some of my own!_

_MY NAME IS MICHAEL J. CABOOSE, AND I! HATE! BABIES!  
AUTOBOTS, TRANSFORM AND ROLL OUT!  
RING-RING-RING-RING RING-RING-RING--__**BANANA PHOOOONE**__!_

_Ha, beat that. Your mushrooms cannot compare to the phone. And with that, I do bid you good day._

_Sincerly,_

_Psycho_

**...Whew, another long one. Pretty soon, these notes will be long as the chapters themselves. And that wouldn't be good, because then I'd have to write longer chapters. In any case,**

**TO BE CONTINUED...**


	13. I Know The Truth

_**Psycho Director: Hello! Welcome back! Ah, feels good to be home. Oddly nostalgic, even. 8O Alright, enough with the handshakes, let's get started!**_

_**RATED G: This chapter is delicate as a kitten and that does not amuse me. D8**_

**_ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo_**

**Psychonauts HQ, 2:02 AM**

"Look, look, everyone calm down, I'm sure we can—"

"Calm _down_!? My _son_ is out there! He's probably cold, and alone, and hungry—"

"He's more than likely not alone, there are two other agents MIA—"

"Yeah, one of them's my _boyfriend_!"

"Hey, he's _my_ boyfriend! He said you're just a friend, you crazy whore—"

"Whore!? Why don't you say that again, you bitch?"

"Ladies, please, there's no need to be fighting—"

"What about my _son_!?"

"Ma'am, we're doing the best we can—"

"What about Sophia? What are you doing to help her?"

"We're going over search and rescue strategies—"

"My boyfriend's gonna' kick those killers' asses!"

Derek waved his hands frantically at the crowd of agents and family involved with what had come to be known as the Thorny Towers Case, trying and failing to calm them down. All around, swarms of people had crowded the normally calm and boring waiting room, firing questions at the exasperated receptionist. Two young women were closest to the counter, and had taken to yelling insults at each other and pulling at each other's hair. One was a well-endowed blonde with long, wavy hair and butterfly clips, dressed in a pink jacket, a black shirt (with a pink cartoon kitty head on it), black pants, and pink and white sneakers. The other was decidedly Asian, with long black hair done in a ponytail, wearing a blue tank top with white rims, a short white skirt, long white socks and shiny purple shoes without laces.

Behind the two women stood a positive mob. A lady in her late twenties or early thirties with poofy red hair and a pretty purple leotard and white tights stood beside a man many knew of as Raz's dad, her hands clasped at her chin. Between them, a little boy (about nine) with a ridiculous red Mohawk he probably cut himself and a little girl (eight) with red pigtails and a pink ballerina costume stood beside each other. The boy scratched the side of his orange T-shirt (with a huge yellow star on the center), which settled above a pair of matching orange slacks. Behind the family stood the last member, a teenage girl of about fourteen with curly red hair down to her shoulders, rubbed her upper arm. She wore a blue T-shirt with a green undershirt (which was long-sleeved), and jeans. The shirt had a series of circles for decoration. They were the Aquato's—Raz's parents and siblings.

Beside the Aquato's stood two people, obviously husband and wife. Anyone could tell that they just returned from their jobs, as the blue-haired woman had on a full doctor's outfit (which was oddly reminiscent of the nurse, Broken's), and the man was decked out in army regalia. The woman kept making disgusted faces and commenting on the uncleanness of the room, while the man just shot everyone dirty looks. Just to their right, a teen (seventeen) boy with matching blue hair, a grey long-sleeved shirt (with the silhouette of a plane on it), brown pants, and red and black gloves kept talking about how cool everything was. They were the Bantanette's—Sophia's mom, dad, and younger brother.

Near the back stood a man with grey hair and dark sunglasses, wearing a white shirt with black rims, dark red pants, and black shoes. He looked like he was getting old, but wouldn't admit it. Beside him stood a woman with short black hair, a lime green shirt, a gold bracelet, jean shorts, and white sneakers stood. They were the Ricotoni's—Vincent's dad and younger sister.

Finally, at the very back, Sasha, Milla, and Lili were crammed beside the door. The trio didn't speak, but shot each other occasional odd looks about the crowd. Even though they were facing a dire emergency, they knew shoving their way to the front would do nothing, and they'd be lying if they said they believed that they were the only ones involved. In fact, everyone there was.

"Ladies, please… uh… Your boyfriend is just fine, girls," Derek tried a new tact to the fighting women, his eyes lighting up with a sly idea. "I mean, isn't he strong—"

"The strongest!" the Asian woman interrupted haughtily.

"And bravest!" the blonde added, stepped away from the other woman to put her hands on her hips.

"And so clever!" Derek coughed.

"Yeah, sure. If he's all that—"

"_If_!? There's no _if_, Mr. Westfield!" The blonde scoffed.

"Right. So he should be able to make it out of this issue just fine. Trust me, compared to some of the other missions we've documented, this one is hardly a problem." The girls seemed happy with this, and Derek enjoyed a brief moment of relief. This was cut short, however, when someone called out, "then why the evacuation? Why hasn't the agency solved the mystery yet? Where is my daughter?" and that sparked another torrent of questions and accusations.

It was then that the trio made their move. Sasha nodded at Milla and Lili, and began to sift his way expertly through the crowd. Milla grabbed Lili's wrist, and the two females followed him. They passed Raz's dad and mom—the former of which couldn't help but think that the three looked strangely familiar—and were just about to snake past Sophia's parents when Derek spotted them. He smiled weakly, relieved, and waved at Sasha.

"Agent Nein, glad you made it," he said in what he hoped was a cheerful tone, but came out just tired. Sasha didn't even glance at him, focused entirely on making it through the crowd. Milla waved back, and Lili just glanced at him. If Derek was upset at being cold-shouldered by the German, he didn't let it show.

"Agent Westfield, I need a diagnostic on all of the data the agency has collected on the case, preferably abridged," Sasha stated, without even so much as a 'hello'. No, he was all business just then. "I also would like the files on the Riverbrook Incident, and any data amassed about the Galochio family circus in Chicago, Illinois." He walked coolly past the desk and into the back hallway, and Derek jogged to catch up.

"Jeez, you're so welcoming in the morning. I've got a pre-prepared summary of what we know—jack shit. Anything we know I already told you telepathically. The kidnappers evacuated Thorny Towers shortly after the incident—they didn't even leave psychic auras behind. The files are in this folder here." He passed a manila folder to Sasha, who took it with a curt nod. "And… what's with the data on Riverbrook and the circus? You don't think they're related, do you?" He shut the door behind them, and the sounds of the crowd were significantly lessened.

"That's exactly what I think, Agent Westfield. Ms. Zanotto here had a clairvoyant vision about it. According to her, she saw through the eyes of Agent Aquato, and was able to accurately identify their location. Also, the agents are being drugged, with something oddly reminiscent of Moses."

Derek had many questions. Was that little girl Lili Zanotto—daughter of the Grand Head himself? How could the agents be kept on a drug that was wiped clean from the psychic black market? Was Lili's vision accurate? And there were others, but he decided to take the one that bit at him the most.

"Agent Nein, there must be a mistake," he began. Sasha raised an eyebrow.

"How so?" Derek sifted through his memories, remembering a newscast he had heard ten months ago.

"Well, I didn't see the actual files, but I saw a report on the news a while back. That circus burned down almost a year ago." Sasha stopped. He turned to face Derek, and the latter could see the agent was confused. Well, confused for Sasha, at least.

"So what's there, then? Just an empty lot?" Derek considered this for a second, then shook his head. The memory was vague, but there.

"No, not really. Apparently, a rival circus family bought out the property just a few days after it burned. They just use it as a storage area now."

"Ironic, isn't it?" Lili drawled. Milla quickly shushed her, but Derek had to admit she was right.

"Who bought it?" Milla asked, just before Sasha could. Derek shrugged.

"I don't know. The file's in the directory somewhere, as both families use psychic activities in their acts, so they're kept track of by the 'Nauts. Their name began with… an 'A', I think. Foreign." Sasha sighed a little at this, and Milla bit her lip. Finally, Sasha spoke, back to sounding authoritative.

"Great. That's all we needed to know." He started to walk ahead of the small group, straight to the directory. However, just as he was about to open the door, Derek called to him.

"Sasha…" he called, slowly, as if in thought. Sasha cast a slightly impatient eye at him, and he took that as a signal to go on. "You're going to think it's crazy, but I could swear that the name's 'Aquato'. But that wouldn't make any sense. Why would a family kidnap someone with their own blood? And a psychic one, at that, going around murdering other, respectable Psychonauts… Even weirder, a few of the guys out there in the waiting room are Aquato's. You think they're the same blood?" A pause.

"…No. I don't." And he shut the door, leaving everyone else in the hall.

* * *

"Back in the early 1920's, this entire area was a huge coal mine. The project lasted for about twenty years before the place finally went dry. After that, everyone just packed up and left, leaving all of these abandoned tunnels. For years afterward, no one would go in 'em, because of all of these noxious gases that had built up, and the fact that they were prone to collapse.

"However, a few years back, my family bought the land to put the circus on, because we were tired of travelling around the country. While we didn't use many of the deeper tunnels, the shallower ones were great for all sorts of stuff—storage, trap doors, we even gave tours. That kept up until almost a year ago, when the circus was burned to the ground. It was an accident—a stray match or something. Everyone died, except for me and my dad.

"Right after it burned down, the Aquatos bought the land. They told everyone who asked it was simply for storage space—like they needed it—but it's not supplies they store here. This place is a slaughterhouse." D'art explained the story as the quartet wound their way through the tunnels (mineshafts, actually) in the dark. The only light came from a large ball of flame, which D'art held suspended in one hand. He led the group along, walking with firm, unnatural steps.

"Slaughterhouse?" Vincent raised an eyebrow, trailing a little way behind the group. "Why would they be killing people off?" He got no answer, aside from that the firelight started to flail around. Curious, he stepped a little closer, into the frantically wavering firelight. Seeing what was the issue, he sighed and shook his head.

"Sophia, put the kid down. I don't think he can breathe." Sophia turned to face him, her arms wrapped tightly around D'art and his face buried in his shoulder. His arms flailed around frantically as he struggled to breathe. Sophia sniffled.

"But it's so _sad_! He lost his whole family except his father! Cousins… siblings… friends. Poor little guy… No wonder he seems so upset! Ooh, I just want to hug you!" Vincent just shot her a stubborn look. So, begrudgingly, she slowly set him on the ground, took away her arms, and stood up.

D'art stood there for a few seconds, his blue skin turning an odd shade of reddish-purple as he gasped for air. Somehow, even gasping for air, he seemed dignified, a fact that Raz was sickly jealous of. After a few seconds, however, he regained his breath and straightened up.

"Erm… yeah. Let's keep going." Sophia smiled and nodded.

"Sure. The sooner we get out of here, the better." They started walking again, Raz at the back, with his arms crossed and a scowl dangerously close to a pout planted on his face. Vincent, however, was more hesitant, but nonetheless kept up. Only D'art stayed behind, his little ball of fire floating telekinetically ahead of the oblivious group. They didn't notice that he didn't follow, convinced that the tiny ball was still in his hand. It was too dark to tell the difference.

They said it had been an accident. A careless toss of a match.

That was what they told him when he first got here, coupled with an, "if anyone asks…"

Someone asked, and he lied to them. He lied to protect the Aquatos.

He lied to protect a bunch of filthy pyromaniacs, all of them.

They said it was an accident—but he knew better. He had watched it happen.

* * *

_Oooooooh! You know what that means, don't you? Yes, yes. IT'S FLASHBACK TIME, BABY! 8D I'm so excited. Chaos! Madness! Destruction! Mental Scarring! I should see a doctor... _

_I'm going to have to the letters later on, though. I have to go... paint... my fish now. I'm debating between keeping up with this where all can enjoy the spurts of random and openly converse, yet risk getting in trouble with the big guys, or just doing E-mail replies to your comments like a normal person, but not being able to have a conversation or lettin gother people see the MADNESS. I want opinions, please. -Waves arm-_

_Thank you. Have a nice day. 8)_


	14. Ring Around The Rosie

**_Dear Diary,_**

**_Today I wrote another chapter for CD101. I had a lot of fun with it, but you know why--the violence. You know how it is, don't you? Of course you do. You grow up watching cheesy monster movies with your family, playing _Rampage _with Eric, and prodding the Internet for more information about those rated R movies you've heard so much about, and sooner or later, you end up getting addicted to the stuff. It's like sex, only with less STDs and more evil laughter. Plus, I can't deny that Bioshock's had more than a few influences on my writing now in days. If it is at all possible to convey an evil laugh in writing, I would be doing so now. Ke ke ke ke ke._**

**_I wonder how the readers will react? I'm pretty surprised they've followed me so far, actually. Here I thought that the blatant, arm-waving sadism in most of my fanfics would have them clawing at their virgin eyes and running screaming. Maybe it's a medical condition: addiction to pain and suffering. Increased desire in beloved characters. Mostly expressed through fictional media._**

**_...Or it could be Algolagnia. But I don't want to accept that, because seeing as this chapter stars D'art, that would make me a pedophile and that would NOT BE COOL. _**

**_In any case, regardless of whether it's Algo... Al... that, or just morbid enjoyment, the Internet now has another dose of deviant entertainment. I hope the readers enjoy. And I really hope Eric doesn't steal you again and do something weird, like post this page on the chapter, 'cause that would suck. Like that would ever happen, though._**

**_Sincerly,_**

_**Nami Arigawa (AKA Psycho Director)**_

Writing's on! Everyone come and get some; while it's warm! And while you're enjoying that, I have some reviews to catch up on! C'est la vie!

_**

* * *

**_

-Flashback-

_**It **_**was** Sunday, June 5, at the Galochio family circus, almost a full year ago. Even though dusk had fallen, wrapping everything in a foggy night, the performers remained as active and cheerful as on any other day. Clowns sauntered by with colorful equipment, enjoying the summer nighttime coolness even in their poofy, warm outfits. Contortionists flexed tired muscles as they walked, creating a sort of cacophony of cracking joints as they passed. A six-year-old girl balanced impossibly well on a huge pink ball, darting nimbly through the crowd. A trio of teenage girls ran past, giggling and flicking rods with multicolored long ribbons at the ends around them. And finally, a pale-skinned nine-year-old with a large green and yellow hat walked by alongside a young-looking woman with short, bluish-black hair and a lovely blue kimono oddly reminiscent of Julia's bright red one.

D'art's outfit had not changed during the almost-year—except for a tiny stain near his pants' cuff, and the fact that, back then, his shorts reached to his knees and his sleeves halfway down his palms. He had hit a growth spurt in the almost-year, but the D'art of June 5th didn't know that, and wouldn't notice for some time. Instead of thinking of his height, he tugged eagerly on his aunt's satin sleeve, his mouth streaming out words like a geyser.

"Oh, and guess what! I think Dad's powers are starting to come off on me, really! I mean, it's just little stuff, but even Dmetri noticed! We were just sitting in the tent, the one with the ladders in it, when this can of paint I was looking at started, like, wiggling! It was crazy! You think so, Mom?" His aunt—who had been his surrogate mother so long it was impossible for him to refer to her as anything other than a real parent—smiled at him, and he felt a surge of happiness.

Lately, his dad barely seemed to even want to look at him. He knew Stepan Galochio was electively mute—had been, according to Ari, since he was two—but he had been especially distant as of late. Whenever he asked his aunt about it, she would just get a strange, distant look in her eyes, and mutter something about "tired winds", whatever that meant. And when D'art was feeling daring enough to ask his father… he'd just look away. Sometimes, he seemed almost sad.

D'art would learn, only a few days later, what caused Stepan to look away. To Stepan, D'artagan's every breath was a sign of what was to come. Because of the curse, he believed, with all of his heart and soul, that his son would die. And he was afraid.

But, on that warm summer night, D'art didn't know what Stepan did, and perhaps it was better that way. Perhaps, if he had known, he might not have fought, and he would have actually died. Still, during that moment in time, his eyes were still alight with life and youthful naiveté. And he still chatted happily to his aunt, who just smiled and nodded, lost inside her own world that no one knew or would ever know. She waved to a backstage performer digging through a pile of boxes, who motioned to her frantically with his hands. She understood, then looked back towards D'artagan.

"D'artagan, listen," she spoke, cutting off his tangent with her lovely voice. "Can you do me a big favor?" D'art blinked, jerking himself away from the world of his story. Eyes curious, he looked up at his aunt.

"What?" In response, his aunt pointed to a white picnic tent, standing erect next to a large one of blue and orange. D'artagan recognized it immediately for what it was—a supply tent. It was also, coincidentally, the same one in which he had telepathically nudged the paint can to Dmetri's surprised stare. He was concentrating on this, and the delightful feeling of near euphoria that came with it, when his aunt spoke up again.

"I need you to go in there and grab the dolly. I'm going to help Yvette with those boxes, so meet me up there, alright?" D'art nodded.

"Sure, mom." He leaned up on his tiptoes, and she crouched down, allowing him to peck her on the cheek. She returned this with one of her own, playfully bopping his hat with her palm as she did so.

"And for goodness sake, take off that hat. You're going to get head lice one of these days." D'art only chuckled, pressing his own hand against the soft, green and yellow fabric.

"Yeah, yeah. Love you, too." And with that, he was off, sprinting off through the crowd and into the cloudy night sky. His aunt waved at him, but he never, even once, looked back.

He would regret that forever.

* * *

"Night is falling on the lush jungle landscape as intrepid explorer D'artagan Galochio slices his way through the wildlife. With a wolf pelt at his side, and his trusty machete warm in his grip, the weedy growths fall before him like servants bowing to their king," D'artagan monologued to himself. He pushed aside the 'weedy growths', which were really just piles of junk, as he made his way through the 'jungle', which was really the tent. He had been told more than once that his imaginary games were immature, but they were fun to him. Still, he kept the games to himself, and only spoke them aloud or really acted them out when he thought he was alone. This was one of those times.

"His blade stabbing at the air, D'art continues to work his way through the undergrowth, pushing birches aside like twigs." He pantomimed this by pushing down a worn mop, and listening contentedly as it crashed to the dirt ground. "His mission is to find the rarest and most exotic jungle animal of them all: the amazing dolly wheel-thing!"

So far, D'art's search had been disappointingly fruitless, to the point where he was just about to stop imagining himself as an explorer and start focusing entirely on searching. But not yet. Instead, he kept going, further imagining himself as a rather buffed out version of himself, with a tan safari outfit and, of course, a full beard. In fact, he was so enraptured in this that he missed the dolly entirely, and nearly missed the first scream. Still, he didn't.

"What was that?" D'art asked himself out loud, turning to the entrance of the tent as if it could provide him some answers. He had been staring at it for only about two seconds when another scream pierced the air, followed by another, and another. Soon it seemed like everyone in the circus was screaming, like a huge chorus of fear.

D'art felt a line of sweat form on his forehead, his eyes wide as he stared at the entrance. It looked, to him, like a vaguely rectangular mouth cut into the white cloth, just waiting for him to step through it so it could swallow him whole. Weird, as just seconds ago it had seemed just as it was, which was an entrance.

The screams continued, growing unnaturally in volume until D'art was sure that the circus alone couldn't be yelling, but that the entire world had joined in. There was also an odd smell in the air, a smoky (_smoky_?) scent that caught in his throat and made him gag. It tasted sickly-sweet, hidden behind a huge, chalky taste, and kind of made his lips sticky. In a weird way, that smell scared him the most, and he backed up into the far corner of the tent, his body shaking and eyes wide. He knew what was happening out there, but wouldn't—_couldn't_—accept it. He could smell the smoke, feel the heat a little by now, and knew he should leave. Certainly he wouldn't be safe, not in here, not from…

…a fire…

…but he didn't want to move. He didn't want to see what had flared up in just the minute or so he had been in the tent. Still, he knew he had to. Slowly, slowly, he forced one hundred-pound foot forward, then the other, in a kind of slow, underwater shuffle. And, as he shuffled slowly towards the exit, he began to make words out from the cacophony. True, honest-to-God words. Words that scared him even more, and added even heavier weights to his feet.

"_Aquato's! They're here! Oh my God, they're everywhere_!"

"_Someone! My daughter! Has anyone seen my daughter, anyone_!?"

"_Please, no, don't kill me! No_!"

"_We need to rescue the children_!" There was an answer to that one, an angry one.

"_Oh, FUCK the children! We're all going to die! London Bridge is fuckin' falling, and we're the dumb bastards still on it_!"

It was at that time that D'art somehow found his way to the exit, then peeked his head tentatively out. When he did, the next scream was his own, and he had to hold onto the seams of the tent just to keep standing.

The circus was burning. It started with just a few tents a ways away from him, but as he watched, the horridly flammable tent cloth of the other ones caught and flared up. Plastic rides melted in the heat. Metal structures stripped bare of paint leered at him like giant skeletons. Even the more durable trailers and such had somehow caught.

What was worst of all, though, were the crowds running away from the flames, screaming and panicking. People D'art once thought of as friends pushed and shoved other friends out of the way, trying to get out first. A few kids younger than himself stumbled around, bawling their eyes out. Some people just jerked along slowly, their faces lost in a shocked haze. All of them D'art knew, whether it was close or just a brief meeting. Even if some of them weren't Galochio's by blood, they all felt like some kind of family. And they had been reduced, in a matter of minutes, to their most basic form: fight or flight. Or die. D'art could see—though he desperately didn't want to—some of the less fortunate ones burning. The numb acceptance of their deaths scared him, too. He was scared of odd things.

Slowly, warily, D'art caught sight of other people near the fire, people he didn't know or couldn't see. He watched them put large sticks into the blaze, wondering what they were doing but not daring to ask out loud. He just watched, with a dead sort of feeling, as they stuck these sticks to other tents and let them catch. Others just stared intently at the tents, and somehow—impossibly—this seemed to make them light, too.

"They're burning the circus…" he muttered, and with his voice, it was like breaking a spell. He clenched the fabric of the tent in white knuckles, then joined everyone else's yelling. "They're _burning_ the _circus_! Stop it! Stop!"

Even though he knew it was a stupid thing to do, even a very dangerous thing to do, D'art ran out into the crowd and towards the fire. He weaved between the crowd, dodging all sorts of hands that stretched towards him. Some wanted to rescue him from the blaze, their hands scooping up young ones like novelty prizes. Some wanted just to push him out of the way, to make room for the owner's own selfish gain—survival. Others, which were rare but real, _wanted_ to cause him harm, believing, in their panic, that he was one of the Aquato's, or just to take out some of the owner's thoughtless aggression at this fire. These were the ones he hated the most.

As D'art ran, he saw other strange things going on that made his heart race and his legs pump faster. He saw strangers with maniac grins, like evildoers in a storybook, fire beams from their heads at people trying to escape. He saw them grab up others, just… _look_… at them, and have them scream and spaz and flail like they were being electrically shocked. He saw people that had been stared at fall onto all fours, foaming at the mouths and snarling viciously like a dog with rabies. It seemed, that day, like black magic.

D'art watched more of the events as he ran, not even sure which way he was going anymore. He was yelling, and crying, too, but he didn't realize it just then. He just ran, now going away from it instead of towards it. All around, he saw people getting torn apart by the crazy people, like scenes in an R-rated movie. He saw people getting burned, buildings lit up like candlewicks, people screaming and running, people standing around, dazed, people grinning like crazy, people actually being crazy and foaming and sprinting on all fours and snarling obscenities. These people attacked the circus workers—and D'art's family—as they fled, tearing them open with their teeth and nails like animals. Even as D'art ran, a person only a few feet away from him was mauled by one of the crazy people, her brown hair flying and her white outfit making Velcro-like ripping sounds as it was torn apart to get to the flesh inside.

(D'art would later learn that the crazy people were the result of a very advanced and very illegal psychic ability, known as Mind Breaking. It literally shattered the affected person's mind, driving them violently and virtually incognitively insane.)

The last thing the lady did before being eaten was point frantically at D'art, which he caught through his peripheral vision. Her eyes light brightly with her own, panicked insanity, she had yelled,

"_No_, not me! Not me! Take _him_, he's slower than me! He's _slower_ than_ me_! Why _me_!?" And then she had screamed, and then she was dead.

D'artagan continued running for some time, until his lungs felt like bursting and his legs were pierced with needles. He finally gave in, pressing his palms against his knees and gasping for air. He stood there for several seconds, his body slowly regaining strength. Still, no matter how hard he ran, it seemed like the decay was always at least one step ahead of him. The circus wasn't burning—_everything_ was. It spread too fast, too much, too powerful. He was just one little boy, with stick-like legs not made for running and a mind that still made up imaginary games.

He tried to keep going, his knees shaking and stomach quivering with exhaustion. He managed to stumble a few more steps before coming to the side wall of an old, brown caravan. It was there that his strength gave out, and he pressed his back against the wall, which was cooler than the smoky air. Coughing slightly, tiredly, with the smoke permeating his lungs, he slid down the wall and to his backside. His eyes slid closed and back open in slow blinks, watering painfully with the stinging air. He pulled his knees up and wrapped pale, shivering arms around them, burying between them a warm, sweat-lined face. How he felt just then was… indescribable. He felt like… like… it just wasn't worth moving. He probably cried, and more than likely coughed, but he couldn't be sure.

He was so out of it that he didn't even notice one of the Mind Broken people coming up to him, until it was far too late.

* * *

_Yay, cliffhangers! 8D What will happen next? Ooh, I'm so mysterious..._


	15. Pocket Full of Posies

_Psycho Director: Woooo! New chapter is up, finally! 8D You are free from your cliffhanger... FOR NOW. MUA HA HA HA._

_...Um... I forgot what I was going to say. Other than, if you're going to read this, put on some creepy, zombie-like/PANIC music, if you want. It helps with the mood. Like... 'From the Inside' by LInkin Park, maybe? I don't know, it's hard to find songs like that on my MP3s. _

_In other news, GORE IS NIGH. The question is, for WHO? 8O_

_Starting..._

"_**D'artagan**_**," D'art** flinched when he heard his name, sounding more like it had been spat out—like a swear word—than a call. He slowly opened his eyes (which he didn't remember shutting), and panned his vision up. Brown slacks… a white shirt… a gold bracelet… light brown tie… and black, short hair above a 5 o' clock shadow. Between the two? Nothing but a pair of lips drawn in a tight scowl, an upturned nose, and eyes devoid of any emotion… except pure hate.

What was worse, D'art recognized the Mind Broken for who he had been—Mr. Saguaro, a man who worked as a backstage assistant to the main family. He had helped D'art perfect many of his trapeze and ball balancing acts more times than the nine-year-old could count. And now here he was, Broken beyond a shadow of repair.

"M-mister Saguaro—" He cut off, his throat drawn tight. Mr. Saguaro suddenly loped over to the left, his eyes alight and foam dripping from the corner of his mouth. D'art watched, grimly fascinated, considering—but not daring to hope—that the crazy person might be leaving. This was not the case, however, as the black-haired man stooped down a few steps away, picking something that D'art couldn't see up off the ground. He then turned around, his mouth foaming thicker than ever and eyes flashing against a backdrop of fire. Something was in his hands, the heavy object balanced between the two.

It was a huge chunk of cement.

D'art screamed as the Mind Broken man shuffled back towards him, with slow, zombie-like steps. His hair—_always so well kept_—swung before his heavily dilated eyes, his lips drawn back to expose pink gums. The veins in his arms stood out like sticks embedded in his skin against the weight of the block.

D'art tried to get to his feet; slipped; fell; screamed again. Unable to run, he tried crawling backwards, working along the side of the caravan. Every instinct screamed at him to get away, his mind flashing red with panic in all of its raw form. He continued to push heavily shaking palms against the ground, sliding them along the slightly muddy terrain.

Finally, one of his palms slipped on the slick surface, and his elbow jammed into the ground and sent fiery pinpricks of pain up and down his arm. He gasped, drawing his arm up against his stomach like it was a baby. Then Mr. Saguaro was upon him, the cement block held high above his head.

"_No_!" D'art cried as the block was brought down hard, faster and faster, straight at his head. He could clearly imagine its heavy weight breaking open his skull like an eggshell, spraying out blood and brains and what-have-you. As he watched the cracks and texture of the rock grow into more vivid detail, his mind processed things at about a thousand miles per hour. He thought of his electively mute father. He thought of his last birthday, and wondered if he would ever see another. He thought of his kind, gentle aunt, with her delicate voice and fancy clothing. He thought of the paint can he had moved just a little so long ago.

_Crack_.

A cry of pain echoed through the area, unnaturally loud and sounding inhuman. It was more like a pig being slaughtered than an actually person screaming, wailing and screeching in a way only seen by someone totally insane or in incredible amounts of pain. Even the sturdiest of people still alive at the circus were shaken up by it.

There were other noises, too. Minute _crack_s echoing the first, loud one… light, rainfall sprinkles… heavy _thunk_s. All D'art could see was black, flooding his vision like spilled ink. Was he dead? Someone was screaming… was it him? His head felt very warm, and he figured that was probably from the blood. Which meant that he was still alive, which to him was absolutely horrible. The last thing he wanted was to be bashed over the head again, to finish the job.

Another scream pounded into his ears, followed by a loud _thud_ to his right. He figured that was probably the cement block. Well, that was good. He was fully expecting a second blow, one that—this time—he would feel.

His head was feeling very, very warm now, and getting warmer. Also, a pulsing headache began to form from deep inside his mind, growing steadily worse. D'art wondered if this was his nerves waking up to a broken-up head and huge brain damage. If that was so, they were awfully slow.

Suddenly, as the cries died to pained whimpers (that still didn't sound just like his voice), he found that the muscles in his eyes were still working. That was odd. He kind of assumed that losing your eyeballs was one of those things that came with getting clubbed over the head with a cement block, like when you whacked a choking person on the back and they coughed up gross, half-chewed food. Still, now that he knew he _had_ eyes, and they _could_ be opened, he felt an unbearable urge to open them, even if it meant staring at his remains until he slowly bled to death or something. And so, he did. And he saw…

Blue. Not even a natural, dark sky blue or ocean water blue, but a fluorescent blue. And it was… swirling. It was like looking at the northern lights, or a rave. It didn't take him long to figure out that the blue was a huge bubble, which he was in. It was translucent, with busted bits of the cement block scattered on top. The rest of the block was a few feet away, with Mr. Saguaro crouched down and poking it like a monkey. He didn't even glance at D'art.

"W-what?" he asked out loud, his throat feeling raw. He had screamed, then, at least once. At least it hadn't been because of pain. It had been of fright, and was coupled with shaking and pale white skin. Still, he felt oddly grateful for some of the little, insignificant things. Scared as he was, he had managed to avoid some of the less positive side-effects of it that he had seen on TV, like puking or wetting his pants. He hadn't even cried (er… much).

Curious, the adrenaline wearing out of his veins, D'art got up to his knees. His head nearly brushed the rim of the bubble. Slowly, he lifted one white arm up and out, stretching towards the bubble's rim. Would it give way like one made of soap? Or would it be hard enough to break cement? His hand stretched further… just an inch away…

"Ah!" D'art gripped his head as a particularly nasty pulse of his headache popped up, like a pinch against his brain. Almost subconsciously, he willed it away, and it did—instantly. The bubble did, too, as the ache left. It just vanished, D'art's furthest finger not even an inch away. D'art put his hand back down after a moment, still on his knees. Could it be… he did… No, that wasn't possible… But the headache…

"I did that?" he wondered, his voice echoing in a place that had gotten all too quiet. He had no time to question it further, however, as Mr. Saguaro suddenly lifted his head up. Wide blue eyes met pure black, and the man's frown turned into a hideous snarl. Once again, he said the only word D'art had heard since he had been Mind Broken.

"_D'artagan_…" D'art was suddenly filled with more adrenaline, seeping into his body and sending him shooting to his feet. Uncertainly, he brought half-closed fists in front of him, his left at his chin and his right at his neck. His feet spread out about a foot and a half apart, one stuck forward and the other back.

Mr. Saguaro growled, animal-like, and pulled his hands up from their spot, palm-up, on the ground. Sandy bits of cement drizzled out from between his fingers, falling to the ground like through an hourglass. He stood up, too, shaking his hands to clear them of dust. Shakily, almost as if he was very old, he pointed at D'art.

"Hell, acrobat… _Hell_, what say? Hell on you!" He appeared to be straining, then shrieked out, "_Hell on you! Hell on you! HELL ON D'ART, YOU SAY_!" D'art took a shaky step back, confused and terrified. What did he mean? Was that… what? An insult? A curse?

"What are you…?" D'art began, but he was cut off.

"_ACROBAT_!" Mr. Saguaro screamed, then barreled forward, hands forward, reaching… D'art leapt to the side, his acrobatic ("Hell, acrobat") skills taking over. Mr. Saguaro charged into the wall of the caravan, and D'art didn't miss his opportunity. While Mr. Saguaro was still recovering from his blow, D'art took off. He tore past the caravan, which had just started to catch, past the white tent, and towards the blue and orange tent. That was _his_ tent, where he and his aunt and his father lived. His home; one of the few tents still unlit. This he sprinted towards, pushing past people and Mind Broken alike.

"Dad! _Dad_! _Help me_! _Help me_!" he yelled as he ran, clearly imagining the man that had raised him as a baby for two years

(_then abandoned him with his aunt for the next seven_)

and would undoubtedly protect him from the nasty Aquato's. He could clearly imagine Stepan's long, dark (_way_ dark) blue hair, thick beard, and black eyes that would only light up whenever he or his aunt was there. He saw Stepan's dark jacket, his yellow shirt, his navy-colored scarf, and dark slacks rolled up at the cuffs. His shirt would feel warm and soft when D'art buried his head in it, his arms would be guarding as they wrapped around his back in a fatherly hug. D'art's own arms would just be able to touch each other as he returned the embrace, and he'd be perfectly safe. As long as he was with his dad, of course.

Just beyond that tent, D'art knew, his father would be waiting for him. His aunt, too. She was far too graceful and dexterous to let those crazy people get her. They'd both be waiting for him, and they'd be so, so happy that he didn't get hurt… He was okay… Maybe a little cut up, maybe scared, but alive, at least…

"_Dad_! _H-help_!" He tore open the tent flap.

* * *

_TO BE CONTINUED. DUN DUN DUN!!_


	16. Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down

**_Hello, all. Yes, it is me. I have returned from the grave to bear upon you all more of the continuing adventures of Raz, D'art, and two (x2) OCs for fun and evil. For you see this project was, just yesterday, a little... not... alive, and for that, I apologize. I was simply frustrated with the lack of comments as of late (with the exception of my cool Internet buddy, NintendoNut1), and worried that, with familiar readers Tashilover and TheOptimisticPessimest suddenly vanishing after the switch to PMs instead of letters, virtually no one was reading this anymore. Plus, I was preoccupied with happily typing out CP and the manga, figuring that no one cared about a lonely little ficlet that started off my Psychonauts fanfiction obsession. _**

**_However, looking at it now has made me realize that, with fifteen chapters hanging around FF like a pack of gansta's, now is not a time to cowardly GIVE UP. Not now, when we are so close to the home stretch, with the plot twists and strange cliffhangers petering out in way of the final battle, where ALL SHALL BE REVEALED! With Sasha, Milla, and Lili racing to the Spades' hideout, with Raz, D'art, Sophia, and Vincent barreling through the tunnels in search of the betraying members of the Aquato family line, and with Flashback!D'art face-to-flap with his home... NAY! I must continue on, for within these pages there is a story to tell! It is of love, of loss, of family, of power and abusers of power, of ancient curses (well, okay, it's not that old) and the dangers of fire, of a daring rescue mission and the question no one dares to ask: just who IS the bad guy? It is the digitally remastered tale of FIGHTING and BURNING STUFF and MAKING STUFF EXPLODE!! 8D_**

**_Hold onto your hats. And, for goodness' sake, REVIEW. We needs it._**

**_Oh, and for the record, the first part is a flashback within a flashback. Just for giggles. (As Sizzlor once said, "How can you remember something if you weren't there to hear it?" "...-Shrugs-")_**

xXxXxXxXx

**_Flashback—One hour previous_**

"It's going to happen very soon now, Galochio," Julia purred, leaning over the shoulder of a positively destitute-looking man with dark blue hair and a beard. He didn't meet her eye, but instead kept his vision trained on the ground.

They were in the orange and blue tent, its decorative furniture lying unattended, aside from two chairs. One was a plain, wooden one, which Stepan sat, slumped over, in. The other was a comfy red one with oak trim and a yellow decorative pillow, which was occupied by the only other person in the room.

Atlas Aquato, fourteen years old, was pretty skinny and just a little tall for his age. He had long, red hair pulled over to one side, not unlike Raz's 'do (but better cared for and handsomer). Like his younger brother (who was considered too young at the time to know about the Spades), he had on a pair of goggles, but they were slung on his neck. He also had on a black, fully zippered jacket with one long and one short sleeve, a red dotted-line pattern running down one side, and a black biker glove on the arm with the short sleeve.

"Aquato's are positioned all over your circus, ready to light the whole place up at my signal." She grinned, then, shark-like. "We don't need lighters. We don't need flint. Just our minds, and your whole life goes up in smoke." She laughed.

Julia's kimono had been replaced, that day, by an orange dress and matching open deep orange, fluffy coat with an especially short rim. The skirt of the dress was short (but not embarrassingly so; just to her knees), and was countered with horizontally-striped pale orange tights, and combat-style black boots that went halfway up her lower legs. As Stepan merely stared down the ground, she stood up straight, walked in front of him, and began pacing. She talked as she did, while Atlas just took out an SP and began playing.

…It was _Kingdom Hearts: Chain of Memories_, but they didn't need to know that.

"And to think, Galochio, you could stop this. All you have to do is tell us what we want to know. It's been seven years. Don't you think it's time to let it go? You were angry; you made a mistake. We all do. You can put it right, right now, and they'd be none the wiser. We'd leave, and you can go back to your life. We would, too. No one needs to know."

…Stepan didn't answer. Julia sighed.

"Well, if you want it to be this way. I can't say I approve of your choice, but I can respect it. At least, with everyone dead, you'll have your petty revenge. And it will be an amazing show, won't it? Those Broken are _merciless_. They'll tear everyone who doesn't get barbecued, Psyblasted, or trampled to bits. It's like a movie. You like movies, don't you, Galochio?" A long silence followed this. Then, a voice, so quiet that Julia missed it at first. Curious, Atlas set his game on pause, then peered his head over the tiny silver device.

"What?" Julia asked, almost unable to believe she had heard something. Stepan spoke?

"_My son_…" he mumbled again, his voice dry and scratchy. Julia snapped her fingers, smiling as she caught hold on an idea.

"Oh, right! I almost forgot. Little D… D'art, was it? Yeah, D'art. The kid with the big hat, I remember now." Her grin turned mean again. "Think, Stepan. He's, what? Eight? Nine? How fast can a little boy like that run, I ask you? Can he run faster than a fully trained, professional acrobat fueled by an incredible rage for anything that moves? Can he survive a murder attempt by an enraged muscleman? Can he hide deep enough that a contortionist can't reach? I don't think he can." Stepan swallowed, then spoke again, his voice drawn tight with pain and sadness.

"Please…"

"Please _what_? Don't kill him? Now, why would we do that? All you did, after all, was kill us all. It's only a matter of time for us. Sooner or later, he's _going_ to die. He's the son of the man who screwed us all over, after all. Survival is not an option."

"No… I-if you have to…" Stepan paused again, angry at himself, but unwilling to stop. "Just… make it quick, and painless. I don't want D'artagan to suffer for what I did." Julia's sharky grin returned at this, more menacing than ever.

"Right. I'll remember that. Atlas, release the signal. He's not going to crack."

xXxXxXxXx

The first thing D'art noticed when he opened the flap was that it was dark. Too dark. The tent's fabric was too thick to let in sunlight normally, but there was almost always a lamp or something on. Not this day, however. The only light was a red glow from the fire just beyond the flap D'art held up, and just a pale soak through of moonshine.

The second thing was that there were three people there, only one of which he knew. The trio hadn't moved much from their positions an hour ago, except for Julia had settled in the chair Atlas had been in, and Atlas had moved to lie down on a pale pink couch. Stepan hadn't moved even an inch.

Even though D'art's ESP hadn't fully developed yet, even the most non-psychic person could detect the negative auras in the air. As such, he slowed his sprint down to a slow, careful shuffle, dropping the flap. As it settled, red light glinted haphazardly across the room, catching on slightly dusty furniture and scary faces. He swallowed, biting a dirty lip, as he locked eyes with his father.

"D-dad?" he asked softly, noticing for the first time just how unkempt the man was. He looked more like a POW than an actual parent. The man looked up, startled, at D'art's voice, and D'art saw that he looked… scared. But it wasn't a fear for himself, not at all. His dark brown eyes darted from D'art to the woman on the chair, then to D'art, then at the door. He wanted D'art to run, but he couldn't. He felt rooted to the floor. And besides that, he didn't have any place else to go. His home had been his last hope, and now that was lost.

Julia, however, seemed horribly elated. Even as D'artagan watched, frozen, she jumped up from her chair and skipped overzealously to him. He couldn't help but notice that she had moved to his side, so he had to break his gaze on his dad to meet her lit eyes and fake grin. However, at that angle, his dad could still see them both. Somehow, D'art didn't think this was a coincidence. His eyes shuffled from her to his dad, back and forth, as she crouched down to his level, her white-gloved hands on her knees.

"Oh, you must be D'artagan! My, my, you've gotten so _big_! I remember when you were just to my knee! You have your mother's eyes, you know. And her hat! Silly, you're much too old for hand-me-downs." D'art put a hand against the side of his stocking cap, rather protectively, and pushed it down just a little further on his head. Julia noticed this, and laughed. This, too, was almost painfully fake.

"Alright, alright. You can keep that old thing. For heaven's sake, I don't want it. It dredges up some…" she looked over at his father, and there seemed to be something secret in it, "_bad memories_. But we're not going to talk about that now. No, there's something more important at hand."

"You mean the fire?" D'art blurted out. He meant for his voice to come out as cold and cynical, like in the movies. It came out as high-pitched and embarrassingly squeaky, like a noise a rubber toy would make when accidentally stepped on. Childishly, he pressed a hand to his mouth, as if trying to stop more squeaks from coming out. Julia's fake laugh returned at this, and D'art felt a hand push against the top of his head. He thought it was supposed to be welcoming—one of those things grandmas would do to their grandkids when they said something cute. However, to him, it felt like she was trying to push him down into the ground and out of sight… out of mind. He wondered if going back outside would be any more dangerous than here.

"Well, aren't you a shy one? You're right, D'art. This is about that nasty old fire out there. You see, your father here has seen what's going on out there. All of those crazy people running about like mean lions, all of that fire, the mobs, the lasers people can shoot out of their heads. It's a scary place outside, D'artagan. There are people out there who want to hurt you very bad. It doesn't matter if you're nine, or nineteen, or two. They're not picky." She leaned close, then put her hands on his shoulders. D'art didn't like the movement—it felt like she was holding him down. No escape. As if on cue, her voice dropped down, and turned much darker.

"You see, little D'artagan, he didn't think you were going to make it. He thought something would definitely get you, and you'd die out there, like everyone else, in horrible, horrible pain. He never expected that you would be able to make it all the way here, right to him. That's when he told us what to do." D'art's dad flinched at this, and his eyes widened in panic.

"No…" he rasped, in a voice D'art hadn't heard in seven years. "Not D'artagan… Not him, too…" D'art shot him a startled look, then looked back at Julia. The orange-clad woman just shot him a grin, which didn't even pretend to be warm and welcoming. It looked like the kind of expression a schizophrenic psychopath might give a hostage while holding a gun to their head. Which, in retrospect, was disturbingly accurate.

"He asked us, personally, to try and find you." D'art swallowed again, but the look he gave her was distressingly hopeful.

"To rescue me?" he offered, knowing in his heart that wasn't the case, but nevertheless asking. Julia shook her head, still playing up the part of a friendly grandmother.

"No, not quite. He told us, D'artagan… _to kill you_." D'art gasped, a squeaky "eh!?" leaking out from it, and jumped back. He whipped his head towards the tent flap—_only a few feet away_—but Julia's hand snapped around his wrist in a vice-like grip. He yanked against it, whimpering and sniffling in a kind of way that was just on the edge of hysterics. However, he was nine. Julia was nineteen. As it was, she only needed one hand to keep him put.

"'Quick and painless', he said. 'Make it quick and painless. I don't want him to _suffer_ for what I did.' That's what your daddy told us, D'artagan. It's not me." All traces of kindness were gone from her voice and expression now. She shot a positively vindictive grin at Stepan. "Are you going to disagree, Stepan? Are you going to call me a liar? Go ahead; say you're a good parent! We know the truth, don't we? We know what you said.

"_We know you burned the circus_."

"_Dad_!" D'art yelled, no longer bordering but fully into hysterics. "_Help me_!"

"You told us to kill him, Galochio. You told us to let him die. I'll bet you thought you were being an amazing parent, weren't you? Instead of having him be eaten or whatnot, you decided to scrap any chance he had for survival so he could 'die painlessly'. He could have—and would have—lived. But no. You just had to make sure he wouldn't die like us all. Terrified. Panicked. Slowly. You were _obsessed_ with distancing the Galochio's from the Aquato's as much as possible.

"But I can see where you're coming from. I really wish we could have that liberty. Just once, the chance to hope that there's a brighter future than someday—any day in our lives—being taken underwater and never coming back up. I'll bet you relish that, the belief that the way _you_ or _your_ family leaves this world will probably be nice, gentle, like taking a bath. I've never taken a bath before. The human body can drown in six inches of water. Just enough to get beyond your mouth. I can't step even into deep puddles.

"So it seems only natural that, when in danger, you choose the painless way out. It doesn't matter to you if just leaving things _alone_ might lead to something good. You want to relish your opportunity to escape the pain at all costs. Why should your son be any different?" She put her free hand against D'art's chin, and he shivered.

"You don't ask what others want. You don't think of the consequences for other people. No, as long as Stepan Galochio can be happy, as long as Stepan Galochio can play his little revenge games, it doesn't matter who gets hurt. You make me sick, really, you do.

"You told me to kill your son. I will never take orders from you. I'd rather drown." Her hand fell away from D'art's chin, to settle on her knee. Still, she wasn't done.

"But I won't go so far as to let your family live while ours suffers in death. I guess that leaves me with only one choice." The hand around D'art's wrist let go, instead moving to be held in front of her, palm up. Hesitant, confused, but terrified to disobey, D'art took it.

"Welcome to the family, D'artagan."

xXxXxXxXx

_And that is the end of the flashback. Ah, feels good to be back. Now remember, if you want this to stay back, don't forget to REVIEW! I know you're out there--I can see your chin. Man, I feel like I'm blackmailing you... Sweet. 8D_


	17. Over the Edge

**__**

Write your own description, you lazy bum! D8 Oh, and the flashback's over. We all had a good time, shared some laughs, shed some tears, but now the party's over, and it's time to take a taxi back to our loving wives/husbands and pretend we're not drunk out of our minds. Good luck!

* * *

"Ow!" Raz suddenly blurted out as they were walking along—the first word he'd said since insulting D'art. Sophia looked down at him, eyes filled with her usual maternal concern.

"Something wrong, dear?" Vincent made a strangled, trying-not-to-laugh noise at the nickname. Doubtless D'art's story had further cranked up her motherly instincts, and God knows they were high enough. Mercy, people, mercy! In response to her question, though, Raz just shook his head, a hand pressed against its side.

"It's nothing. Just a headache, 'is all," he muttered. Slightly ahead of them, D'art pantomimed an overly dramatic fainting spell (safely out of Sophia's line of vision), and Raz shot him a scathing glare.

"Oh, how horrible. Don't worry, we're almost there. We just have to get through all of these tunnels, and then we can go home."

"I hear bashing your head with a rock is a good cure for headaches," Vincent added unhelpfully. He went ignored. However, his next statement did not, and was actually useful: "You know, that's weird. I've been having this headache for a few minutes now." Sophia turned back to look at him, and her eyes were surprised.

"Really? Me too. You think there's something in the air?"

"It's not the air." All three turned at D'art spoke up, inquisitive. D'art looked up at them, his eyes sparking with knowledge. "It's the cysts in your brain. The drug—Moses—is what keeps them alive. Without it, your body will naturally wear them away. However, the process isn't exactly painless, as the artery's all infected and gross and way sensitive."

"There's something in my _brain_? In _our _brains?" Sophia squeaked, putting a hand to the side of her head as if she could feel it. From behind them, Vincent rolled his eyes.

"There's a _cyst_. It's a malignant growth, not some sort of Big Brother chip or whatever. Like a pimple, sort of." D'art nodded.

"Right. You might want to watch out, though. The point where the membrane breaks, I've heard, is the most painful part of all." Sophia shivered.

"…We'll watch out for that." Vincent and Raz nodded, the latter rubbing the top of his head. They began walking again, moments from continuing their interrogation about their brain-zits, but D'art put up a hand to stop them. At their questioning looks, he didn't say anything, but instead held his light out a little further. The darkness shone back unnaturally deep back at them against the ground, huge and black. It was a tunnel, an entirely vertical one. They stared at it, expressions ranging from concerned to angry.

"What do we do now?" Sophia asked. She turned to look at D'art questioningly. "Is there another way across?" From below her, D'art shook his head grimly, and she sighed.

"We could climb down one side and back up the other," Vincent pointed out with the first useful idea he'd had all day. However, the ever-pessimistic D'art was quick to cut down this idea, too.

"Yeah, if you're in for a really, really long hike," he drawled sarcastically. "That's not hole—it's a vertical tunnel. They go on for miles, and I'm not just exaggerating. Look." With an undignified hack of whatever was deep inside his lungs, D'art walked over to the edge, then spat a loogie into the hole. While Sophia made disgusted noises and thanked God for the lack of light, and Vincent remembered a movie he saw that had a similar scene, and Raz thought about what barbarians Galochios were (trying to one-up D'art's natural 'holier-than-thou' attitude), the glob of spit sailed down into the deep and was silent. There was a long pause.

"Where's the splat?" Sophia asked, shuddering slightly at the mental image. Vincent just whistled, staring down the pitch black of the hole.

"Damn," he crooned finally, pretty much surmising the other two's feelings.

"So what do we do now, genius?" Raz drawled, crossing his skinny arms. He winced as his bloody arm sent out little pinpricks of pain at this, the fresh scabs threatening to crack, but otherwise pretended not to notice. D'art cast him a look one might give a particularly slimy worm in response, and he matched it with a loathing scowl.

"Didn't you notice?" D'art reminded him, holding his flame ball a little higher. In the orange glow, Raz caught the glint of something metal… wait… a _bunch _of metal things. Metal beams, he realized. They stuck out above the hole, running past the group in a series that went beyond what Raz could see and well beyond the hole, each about three feet apart. Raz's fist clenched as he knew he'd been shown up, yet at the same time, he was relieved that they weren't stuck. This was contagious; Sophia and Vincent both started smiling.

"Just like monkey bars!" Sophia exclaimed, reaching up and poking one of the bars. The rusted metal let out a bell-like _ping_ at this, casting off a bit of its rust in lightly tumbling flakes. "It should be easy to climb across." She smiled at Raz and D'art, who both beamed at her with childish pseudoglee before going back to loathing each other.

"Are you sure you can handle this?" D'art asked Raz, looking at his bloodied arm. It wasn't out of curiosity, and certainly not concern. It was a challenge, and Raz was all too eager to accept.

"I don't need to be at full health to outdo you. It's in my blood." D'art rolled his eyes.

"You'd think you would have learned by now…" he muttered, and Raz shot him a fiery glare.

"And _what _is that supposed to mean?"

"…Nevermind. Look, do you want to get out, or just wait until 'your blood' comes back to kill you?" Raz froze, his confidence about the superiority of Aquatos over Galochios falling as he remembered why he was here. It was a major blow to his ego to be reminded that, technically, the Aquatos were the bad guys in this mission.

"…W-well… I'm not really evil, though! They are, not me! They just… share… my name…" He paused, blinking, as he was struck by a sudden thought. All of a sudden, he felt very stupid. D'art didn't make matters any easier, as he looked at Raz with a sad, sagely look.

"Duh, moron. Congratulations. You're smarter than a thirty-seven-year-old elective mute." With that, he leapt up onto the bars, swinging from one to the other with all the grace of a child acrobat. Raz stood at the other side for a few seconds longer, though, scratching his head.

"Thirty-seven… wait… what? Couldn't you just have said, 'brick' or something? …Ah, stupid Galochio." And he took off onto the bars, too.

Vincent and Sophia stayed where they were, watching the skilled acrobats sail off into the dark. The fireball bobbed alone above the middle of the hole, giving just enough light for all four. Slowly, both of the adults stared at each other, their faces surprised.

"Did you know they were so… dexterous?" Sophia asked Vincent, her blue eyes wide. Vincent shook his head, shrugging. After a moment, Sophia shrugged back, and both followed along on the bars, reaching their way across (like monkey bars) rather than flipping. They were skilled, being Psychonauts. Not _that _skilled. Both had been shown up by a pair of angry ten-year-olds and, humbled, made no effort to hurry.

In retrospect, that may well have saved their lives.

"Hurry up, stupid," D'art chided Raz from up ahead, sliding onto his feet on top of one of the bars and leaping over two more, just grasping the third. Raz responded by kicking his feet up and jumping over the bars, landing on his feet on top of one in a breathtaking display (if you ignored his arms pinwheeling). It became a competition, inevitably: who was a better acrobat.

D'art echoed Raz's stunt, one-upping it by doing it… backwards. Raz growled, both at being outdone and being ripped off, and weaved over and under the bars like a fish swimming. D'art was waiting for him, balancing on one of the bars in an effortless one-handed handstand. As Raz approached him, the goggled boy gave one last launch above the bars, landing in what was probably an uncomfortable way but nevertheless looked cool: sitting on the next bar. He chose this time, now that he was close to D'art, to ask his question.

"What did you mean?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. D'art blinked, confused, then slid out of his handstand position to sit on the bar in front of Raz, facing him.

"I didn't say anything." Surprisingly, there wasn't any contempt in his voice; just honest curiosity. Raz subconsciously matched this, pushing on in a way that had nothing to do with their rivalry.

"No, I mean back then. You said I was smarter than a thirty-something-year-old elective mute. What was that about?" D'art looked away from Raz's curious gaze, his eyes suddenly sad. Raz cocked his head, trying to pick out an answer without saying anything. Luckily, he didn't have to, as D'art answered.

"It's… nothing. I just know someone like that, and he's… not that bright. A total idiot, actually." Raz frowned.

"…I'm not thirty. I'm ten, in case that's it." D'art shook his head, and Raz, though uncertain, prodded on. "Friend of yours?"

"_No_!" D'art exclaimed suddenly, punching the wall and making Raz flinch. "I hate him! Hate, loathe, despise, and everything else! He's a selfish bastard that makes me wish I'd never been born!" He punched the wall again, his breath coming in quick, quiet, feminine gasps even as two of his knuckles faded to red. Raz gasped, holding out his hands.

"Hey, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings!" And, he noticed with astonishment, he meant it. D'art, however, shook his head again.

"It's okay. It's nothing you did." Raz leaned forward, anyway, the bar he was on giving a sleepy groan at the movement.

"Still, uh, if you wanna' maybe… talk about it, then I'm—" he paused, however, when he heard a sudden series of what sounded like rocks falling. His ears perked, and he looked around for the source of the noise. "What the…?" He glanced up at D'art. The other acrobat was staring at Raz's bar, looking horror-struck.

"Raz…" he gasped, and Raz's face paled as he discovered the source of the din a few moments too late. He was eighty-three pounds of solid weight, sitting precariously on a small, heavily rusted bar jutting out too far from an unsupported, worn rock wall.

With a loud crack, the bar broke free from the wall, and Raz let out a shriek as he suddenly found himself over miles of empty space. He reached out blindly for one of the bars, his stomach dropping as he plummeted. He thought he heard Sophia scream, Vincent yell his name, and D'art… what was D'art doing?

He got his answer quickly enough, as less than a second after the bar broke, he felt a thin but firm hand clamp around his wrist. With a lighter cry, he jerked to a stop, then reached up and grabbed the wrist with his free hand. Slowly, still wide with shock, his eyes cast upwards, only to see… yes… D'art! The stocking capped youngster was hanging from his much sturdier bar by one hand and two ankles, the other hand tight against Raz's own. This wasn't as effortless as the handstand; his eyes were narrowed, and sweat was beading across his brow. Still, he kept on, knowing that he was the one thing keeping Raz from becoming a splatter deep underground.

"D'art…" Raz gasped, at a loss for words. He finally settled for, "_Don't let go_!"

"_Oh, I really meant to do that, Einstein_!" D'art spat back sarcastically, bitterly realistic even as he strained to hold on. Raz smiled in spite of himself, focusing on the wit rather than how the hell he was supposed to get up.

…As it turned out, however, things were about to get a lot worse. Raz gasped as he heard footsteps coming from the end they were aiming for, ones that didn't sound like Vincent or Sophia. Instead, they made a metallic _klak-klak _sound against the rock, like a robot. They sounded somehow familiar, but Raz didn't know where… until he heard it. It was a voice that made his blood run cold and his grip weaken, and made him seriously consider letting go right now.

Well, it wasn't a voice so much as a laugh, but that just set the identity in stone. It was loud, high, and cackling, the stereotypical mad scientist laugh that he knew all-too-well from back at Whispering Rock…

"Well, well. It seems the tables have turned, haven't they, lads?" the mad dentist giggled, leaning over the edge of the hole and straight into the furious eyes of D'art and the fear-struck eyes of Raz. "Looks like I'll have to reschedule your appointment. Such a shame. Let's just get this over with lickety-split, so I can get back to the other patients. They've been waiting so _patiently_. Hah, get it? Patients? It's a virtue, you know. Get it?" The two just blinked, and Loboto frowned.

"Eh, my best jokes are wasted on the young and the ignorant. Oh, well. Not much sense in pleasing a pair of picky critics." And, before Raz could even take another breath, he found himself face-to-face with a peppermill he knew all too well, and powerless to stop it.

* * *

_Everyone say it with me: DUN DUN DUUUUUN! 8D To be continued._


	18. A Commadre Born

**_Hello, everyone! 8D Wow; I'm shocked. That's all I can say. SHOCKED WITH JOY, LIKE A CHONIC MASOCHIST UNDERGOING ELECTROSHOCK THERAPY. Only this is better than that, because there is no hurting on anyone's part (Nami is not liable for any carpel tunnel syndrome induced by any writing associated with this fanfiction)._**

**_I say the reviews are lacking._**

**_I get four. FOUR. That's more than I've gotten in a chapter (drablets emitted) EVER. EEEEVEEEER. I may have even gotten five (for it says I have five), but the server is being stupid again and won't let me see it. D8 So, if there is a real fifth review, then I won't be able to answer it until the end of this chapter. How sad._**

**_In any case, as a treat to you guys for the reviews, here's the next chapter, up bright and early. I warn you, though: it's not perfect. There's a lot of diolouge (for plot reasons) and a moment that tries to be emotional but really makes me want to gag myself with a spoon, too. 'Tis what happens when you combine 'Never Too Late' by Three Days Grace and a dramatic plot twist THE LIKES OF WHICH WE'VE ONLY SEEN SEVENTEEN TIMES BEFORE! 8O All jokes aside, though, I feel kind of like I failed. But only at that point. The rest is alright. So, enjoy._**

**_(PSST! Review MORE and there might be more goodies! HINT WINK!)_**

**_(PSST AGAIN! I'M GONNA' PUT A SELF-PLUG HERE, OKAY? _**

**_HEY, KIDS! Do you love violence? Insanity? Gore? Blood? Torture? Naughty language? Psychonauts? How about all of them? Then have I got the thing for you! Just delete the spaces!_**

fan fiction . net /s/4306776/1/ToBreakanAgent

**_Say hello to one of the most depressing, angsty Psychonauts fics this side of the Internet! 8D Surprisingly, it's considerably more serious than this plug makes it sound.)_**

**_And now, the fic. No, the other one, not TBaA._**

_ooooooooooooooooooooo_

Raz squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the familiar, itchy feeling of the Super Sneezing Powder filling his lungs, tickling his nose, and forcing him to let out a sneeze. He'd felt it once before; the sudden vertigo as his mind hit the dirt and his body wandered thoughtlessly to who-knows-where. Only, in this case, that who-knows-where was miles below, and the dirt was the greedy one-and-a-half hands of an insane, megalomaniac dentist.

"No!" he yelped uselessly, holding onto D'art's hand with all his strength. D'art winced, Raz could feel it, but he reminded himself that D'art was just a Galochio, worth as much care as if he were hanging onto a rope or a cliff edge, if not less. He didn't quite believe that, or at least not as certainly as he had when they first met, but if it kept him alive and brained for a little bit longer…

"Oh, please," Loboto scoffed, his high voice squeaking over the tones. "If you'd rather just fall, then be my guest. I'm not going to hold out my hand all day." Raz's eyes opened at this, confused at the wording of the sentence. Holding out his hand all day didn't sound like something he'd do if he meant to steal their brains (he noted with surprise that, at least subconsciously, he didn't want D'art's brain stolen, either). So he looked up, only to see that the peppermill was still there, but Loboto's other hand was planted on the ground. Which meant that he wasn't turning it. Which meant… but no… that wasn't possible…

Still, his hand shaking with both nervousness and exhaustion, Raz released D'art's wrist and clamped, instead, around the mill. D'art didn't say anything, but released the bar and let himself fall to the bottom of the line. Raz jerked as D'art's weight hit against his, but stubbornly held on. And there it was: Loboto's mill in one of Raz's hands, D'art's wrist in the other, and the dentist pulling the two acrobats up.

For such a scrawny guy, Loboto was actually pretty strong, and, with a groan, he managed to haul both Raz and D'art up onto the other side. It was there that the three collapsed, Loboto on his rear and the two kids on their backs, the latter gasping with exhaustion and sweet relief, the former more from momentum and lack of grace.

"This doesn't… change a… thing," Raz gasped to D'art, trying to shoot him a glare even though he was grinning just at being alive.

"Darn… Still as stupid as ever, then?" D'art retorted to the ceiling. Raz could just see that he was smiling, too.

"Yes… you are."

"Ooh, very mature, Aquato."

"Your mom thought I was pretty mature last night." D'art sat up and stared at Raz, eyebrow raised.

"My mom's dead, remember?"

"Does the word 'necrophilia' mean anything to you?" He gave a disturbingly good (_and by that I mean actually kind of sexy)_ Casanova-esque look, but stopped abruptly when D'art chucked a rock at his forehead, and hit. He retaliated by grabbing a bigger rock, and was about to chuck it, when he suddenly became aware of a presence behind him. Confused, he turned around, only to be reminded of the mad dentist's presence. Quickly, pretending he wasn't tired and hadn't lost his powers, he thrust his way to his feet, glaring daggers at Dr. Loboto.

"And you. You're acting crazy—and by that I mean, well, less crazy, but… uh… not like yourself! Anyone as brain-crazy as you would have jumped at the chance to take a helpless pair of prodigy minds, so why did you _help_ us? Or do you want our bodies, too?" He paused at that, blinking, then slowly mouthed the previous statement to himself. Shortly after, however, he blushed and buried his face in his hand. "That sounded… really wrong…" Loboto, however, just laughed in his usual, less-than-normal way.

"Oh, that's right, now I remember! You're that lovely little package Oleander sent me last summer, after that whole, nutty 'Brain Tank' plan I helped him with. Bummer how that turned out, what with that wretched _turtle _blasting me right out of the top floor and then the whole place going up in smoke. Tell me; how is Oleander? Is he well?" Raz paused, raising an eyebrow as Loboto's mind took a different train of thought to a different station on a different planet. Nevertheless (and now thoroughly disturbed due to Loboto calling him a 'lovely little package' shortly after his own innuendo), he answered him. After all, it was the least he could do.

"…He's fine. A little less authoritarian and generally evil, though. He teaches little kids at summer camp." Much as he hated to refer to himself and his peers in any way 'little', he liked how degraded and humbled it made Oleander sound (_Bitter? I'm not bitter… Who's bitter?_). Loboto shrugged at this, ever optimistic because he's just cool like that.

"Aw, well. He had quite something special going on there, but it just wasn't meant to be. It seems that's not the last thing we've seen that's destined to fail, eh?" Raz gave him a look that clearly stated, "_We_?", then darted back to his original question.

"That doesn't explain why you helped us." Loboto blinked, considering his answer. From behind him, Raz heard Sophia and Vincent land, but he paid them no mind, and they ignored them in preference of hearing Loboto's answer.

"Well, that's simple," he began, and his voice lowered down so, to the surprised listeners (and readers), he sounded almost… sane. "I want _revenge_." Raz narrowed his eyes at this, lowering down into a familiar defensive position.

"Bring it on, then," he growled, hoping that he'd still be able to kick butt even without amazing psychic powers. D'art was quiet; Raz noticed, with surprise, that he was glaring at Loboto in a way similar to how he'd looked at Raz (and Raz had returned). Loboto, however, just cackled, putting a hand against Raz's helmet and waving it in lieu of having actual hair to ruffle. Raz cringed at the movement, but otherwise made no comment.

"Silly child, I'm not mad at you. Why would I be? Just because I never got to pick your brain? Don't be disheartened—once this mess is done, I'll get right to it." He stood straight again, looking down the hall beyond him with an angry glare.

"No, it's something else. I was recently cheated out of turning a very nice profit, something that makes me very angry, indeed. And so help me, I will get back at them, even if this means I won't get to take any of your minds until afterwards. I can wait."

"So, let me get this straight," Raz started, a little confused. "You want us to help you take down the Spades from the inside, like some sort of army?" Loboto smiled and nodded.

"It could be fun! My associate, Mr. Whytehead, already found where they're keeping the other three… What did they call them? …Aquatos, yes. Once we have them, it should be simple. Perhaps even epic." Raz was still skeptical, D'art was still angsting about something, and Sophia and Vincent were confused and taking to the side.

"What did the other two look like?" Raz asked, his stomach dropping a little as he considered the thought of his family (the good part of his family, at least), being held hostage. Loboto waved his one good arm, dismissing what had Raz troubled.

"I don't know; they told us barely anything. A bearded man, fat woman, and boy with a Mohawk, from what I could see of them. No, wait, not fat; pregnant, I think." Raz's stomach plummeted at this, his mind racing to identify names and faces. Frantically, he fired questions at the doctor.

"Anything else? Did the boy have really dark red hair and a star on his shirt? Was the woman blonde or did she have black hair? Did the man have an eye patch?" Loboto winced.

"Alright, in order: yes, blonde, no." Raz gasped, his face paling. There were only two people in the circus who matched those descriptions: his aunt, Nadia Aquato, who had been seven months pregnant when he'd run away, and his little brother, Osmond Aquato! But the bearded guy, who was that? Slowly, his voice chalky, he asked.

"The man… did he have… two scars across one eye? Or maybe a purple leotard? Or a really bad haircut that's big on one side and short on the other?"

"How am I supposed to know about scars? I only caught a glimpse. Anyway, though, I remember he was ugly. He had on a normal, tan shirt and white pants, and a haircut that'd make a beautician commit suicide, if that's what you mean. Stuck up and lumpy and red, just like a flipped version of his beard. Hideous." Loboto shuddered, but Raz went so far as to fall to his knees, his eyes blank and face ashen. He'd recognize that 'do anywhere, and that scared him.

"Dad…" he mumbled. Sophia, hearing this, crouched down at his side. He didn't say anything; just leaned against her side and let her hug him without objection. She sensed he needed comfort (she didn't need her powers to do that much), and was, as usual, there to provide it.

"Hey, hey, come here," she crooned, somehow cutting herself off from launching into a full Disney-style, humiliating, 'Everything's going to be alright' speech.

"…They took my dad… and my _brother_…" Raz reiterated, feeling pathetic for being hugged, but too weak to try and break away. He settled for staring at the rock wall, not really seeing anything.

"Shh… I know, I know," Sophia murmured, not noticing Vincent, D'art, and Loboto sharing 'gag-me-with-a-spoon' looks. "We'll get them back, Razputin. Promise." Raz, meanwhile, was thinking. He wondered what sort of Hell his mom must be going through: her husband and two sons taken by a mysterious organization, one of the members of which was her third, runaway son. That would mean that only she and his sister, Rena Alexandria Aquato (named after the Cza**rina** **Alexandria**, just as he'd been named after Rasputin, which resulted in more than a few incest jokes), would be there. She'd been scared enough when she'd heard of Raz's original running away to Whispering Rock, and then, he was psychic and just going to summer camp. Now it was a series of, not runaways, but _kidnappings_, three of them, and he wasn't psychic.

"What about me?" Raz heard D'art ask Loboto. "I'm _one of them_, remember?"

"Yes, yes," Dr. Loboto replied, "but, if what I've heard is true, you're the only one of us who has any sort of good psychic ability in them. And with this being the Spoon-Bender's club, we're probably going to need that. Believe me, little boy, I hate you, too. But if we're going to have any shot at victory, I'm not allowed to torture you to death until after we're done here. So you can either help us brutally murder your friends, or I'll give you a demonstration of what this pepper mill can do." D'art rolled his eyes at the thought of the Aquatos being his 'friends'. The closest thing he had to an Aquato friend (and, he had to grudgingly admit, a friend at all, lest he count the two adult agents) was Raz, and they were on the same shaky agreement as he was with Loboto.

"_You're_ making me choose between candy and poison, Doctor. I'd help _Hitler_ and _Stalin _kill those guys at this point. Let's just rescue those guys so Ra—the Aquato doesn't throw a tantrum, and then go home." It was at this point Vincent spoke up, pure curiosity peeking through his confusion.

"Home? Where do you have to go to after this is over, D'art?" Raz noticed that he was addressing D'art by chosen nickname, whereas he was still 'kid', but didn't feel like starting a jealousy argument now. Names seemed so stupid right now.

D'art sighed, then spoke. "I… don't know. A home, I guess. Anywhere's gotta' be better than here, though."

"Yeah, I know, 'home'. I mean a home _where_? The old fairgrounds was burned, and the new one's… here."

"Vincent!" Sophia hissed reprimandingly, but D'art nonetheless answered.

"No, I mean a 'Home'."

"Yeah, but… Oh. You mean like… oh."

"Yes, you paramecium. I mean 'orphanage'. Happy now?" Vincent never got to answer, as, just then, Raz spoke up. He carefully weaved out of Sophia's arms, then looked up at Dr. Loboto with a determined stare.

"Okay, Dr. Loboto. You got yourself a deal. Let's go save the good guys and beat the bad guys, 'family lines' be damned." He held out an official-looking hand, but rather than shake it, Loboto instead put his own hand, sandwich-style, on top of it. D'art, getting the hint quickly, put his own hand on top of that, followed by Vincent's, then Sophia's. Raz caught D'art's eye and nodded. D'art nodded back.

It was time to move.

* * *

_To be continued! 8D_


	19. Of Mace and Madness

**_Hello, everyone! It is good to see you all again, and you all seem to be pleasantly alive or undead, which pleases me. As a result of your continued survival in this strange world we call Earth (or Mars, on the off-chance we manage to terraform and populate it and CD101 becomes a holy scribe for The Most Excellent Game Psychonauts, the likes of which has only been seen since the Bible and Harry Potter), I am proud to present to you these new four pages of excellence. This is also brought upon by continued reviews, which have been scientifically proven to increase happiness, escalate productivity, help you get rich instantly, aid you in losing weight, reduce your risk of contracting moncerherpalAIVDS, and attract chicks._**

**_So, without further adu, here is your daily dose of awesome, now in Crispy-flavored. Yay._**

**_ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo_**

Unofficial Ex-Head Orderly of Post-Houston Thorny Towers Insane Asylum, Crispin Whytehead, was waiting. For what—well, bugger if he knew, but he was sure it must have been, if not important, than reasonably entertaining. Still, despite the prospect of some new stage in their revenge ploy coming towards him, and despite the fact that the thought of staining these damned mines with blood filled him with maniac glee, he remained silent and stoic, as was his nature.

From behind him, locked in a cage, were three people he neither knew nor particularly cared about. Sure, he had no desire to see them dead (as would inevitably happen, were he not to stop it), but equally no pull towards going out of his way to save them. He saw people in the same way he saw, say, a rabbit: sometimes entertaining, rather useless, and fun to see shoved into a meat grinder, not that that took up all his time. Murder was a pastime, not an obsession, and one that he had yet to partake in. At this rate, he probably never would. But there was always television.

Speaking of those three, Crispin noticed that the man had taken up talking with the boy. Crispin had no qualms with the man; though insightful, Crispin himself was no beauty queen to compare to, and had since never bothered to judge someone via appearance (one of his few positive traits). The boy, however, was a repulsive, sniveling, whiny lump of boogies, who spent the entire time he wasn't wailing deafeningly either blathering away, sleeping, or coming up with new ways to infuriate Crispin. One would think being in a dark, dank cell made of rock for some time, he'd eventually run out of things to say, but no. Every time he threatened to calm down he'd get a new idea, and prattle on about it until Crispin felt very well like screaming "SHUT UP, YOU BLOODY BASTARD!!" in a way that was very uncharacteristic of him.

"Daddy…" the whiny brat was moaning now, clinging to his father's pant leg like an overgrown leech, "why'd they take my brother away?" This wasn't the first time he'd asked something of the same nature; a good fourth of his questions had to do with an enigmatic older brother of his named… Daz or something. Crispin made a point to try and forget whatever the child was saying at all times.

"I don't know, Ozzy," his father replied back, far beyond coming up with pleasing lies. Crispin admired that; better to just be honest with the young ones. "He's probably with his friends from camp, though. He's not all alone." 'Ozzy' sniffled.

"I know _that._ Just, why can't he be with _me_? I miss him." He sniffled again, hazardously close to bawling again. There was a shuffling noise, wherein Crispin guessed the father had pulled the son into a sappy, stomach-turning embrace.

"I know. I do, too." There was a few moments of blissful silence, which Crispin enjoyed immensely. He even dared to hope that the tiny monster had finally exhausted himself and gone to sleep. However, this hope was shattered when he heard the father bark something, which was undoubtedly targeted at him.

"Hey, you!" he called, not even bothering with proper etiquette. Couldn't say he blamed him, honestly, but Crispin still thought of it as rather rude. However, he turned around as he was called, his sleepy eyes meeting the infuriated yet tired pair of the dad's.

"What is it this time?" Crispin drawled, never failing to put a pessimistic slur into his speech. This only seemed to irk the redhead further, though, and he shot a bitter look at the Ex-Head Orderly, as if he were somehow to blame for their predicament.

"What have you done with my son?" he growled, then, on a second thought, "What're you going to do with us?" Crispin rolled his eyes.

"_I_ haven't done a thing to any of your family. On the contrary, your boy there makes me want to bash my head open against a stone." Ozzy broke out into grating sobs at this, but quickly hushed up at his father's command, to Crispin's relief. He continued, "I'm just the guard." The father let out an angry noise at this, resulting in a scared little "eep!" from his son that brought up nostalgic memories of Sheegor. Such a shame about what happened to her. Crispin could only assume she'd died in that fire, along with the inmates. There wasn't any way off the island, in any case, though Sheegor had mentioned once something about someone named Linda… According to her, Linda sometimes took her away from the island for a while. Probably just some old woman who owned a boat, though the fact that Crispin had never seen her was a bit odd…

"I meant, what are the _Spades_ going to do with us? Happy now?" the father spat. Crispin chuckled, slightly amused by having successfully enraged him.

"To make a long story short, if they're victorious, they want to take you to an underground lake and drown you off ritually, one by one, to stop some sort of family-line-based curse by killing off the last males of the family, thus killing off the line." He mumbled under his breath, "Bunch of daft morons, if you ask me…" However, the father caught it and, between his son's voracious wails, spoke again.

Father: "Then why are you helping them?"

Crispin: "Who said I was? I'm just the guard."

Ozzy: "_I WANT MY BIG BROTHER RIGHT NOW!_"

Father: "Yes, yes, shush, Osmond, I'm trying to talk to the guard—"

Ozzy: "NO! _NO_! I WANT _RAZ_ RIGHT NOW! NOW, NOW, NOW!!"

Crispin: "Gah! Shut the _bloody hell_ up!"

Father: "Quiet, you!"

Ozzy: "RAZ! _RAAAAAAAAAAAAZ_! MOMMY!"

"Alright, all of you, shut up!" a fourth voice suddenly tore in, low and growling and commanding. At it, Crispin turned his head around and up, only to stare at another Spade member. This one had dark red hair, long and greasy, that fell in front of his eyes, which were hallowed and dim. His skin was red and fat, done up in a burly figure obscured by a navy shirt and pants. He smiled sickly at the group, exposing yellow teeth.

From behind this new guy was another, lankier teenager, with blonde hair that looked just as miserably unkempt. His gray eyes were blank, creepily so, and he walked in a way that was not dissimilar to a hunchback, despite his normal spine. He had on a black shirt with a complex blue logo and brown jeans, both of which were dirty. He was probably the closest example of a zombie Crispin had ever seen.

"Hey, Crispy, you sure you got these guys under control?" he asked jeeringly, in the process pulling out a small spray bottle of what looked like mace from his front pocket and shaking it as he spoke. Crispin got the message.

"That's 'Crispin', you narcissistic twit," Crispin corrected bitterly, but the Spade member just waved it off.

"Whatever, Crispy. You want my mace? I don't need it for a Broken. Some of them don't even notice, and none of them are smart enough to call for it." For a second, Crispin weighed the benefits of spraying Ozzy with a face full of the burning stuff, but soon decided against it. For one thing, that'd just increase the wails, and for another, he was here to 'protect' them, much as he loathed it. Only Loboto would allow him to protect a family, jeez…

"No. I've only got a few minutes left of my shift." That was it; no 'thanks for offering' or something along those lines. The Spade member shrugged at this, eternally lax.

"Suit yourself. You know, I don't know why you chose to guard without a Broken. They're great. They'll do whatever you say, and if they're slow, all you have to due is give them a zap and they speed right up. They're like robots that look like people." He demonstrated this by suddenly turning and spraying a bit of the bottle into the face of the teen. The teen let out an inhuman shriek in response that sent shivers down everyone else's spines (yes, even Crispin's). He stood up perfectly straight for a moment, eyes darting about wildly, then slowly relaxed back into his usual position, this time clawing at his face as he did so, like some sort of dying spider.

"Oh my God," the father breathed, his hands over Ozzy's eyes (as Crispin could just barely see out of his peripheral vision). The Spade member, though, kept going on, as if nothing had happened.

"Easy. The only problems we've had at all are with 7-A, who ran off shortly before her assignment to shoot the guys in the bottom cell. Julia's all for blaming the Galochio kid, but I doubt a snot-nosed brat like him could be able to go espionage on us. He's been on our side for a year now. No kid's that patient." He laughed, but Crispin felt a slight twinge in his stomach. If those people were the ones Loboto needed…

"…Shoot?" he asked.

"Yeah. You know, with that Moses shit. Keeps the freaks from working their magic on us." Crispin felt a stir of relief this time. He knew of the drug Moses. The Spade meant shoot with a shot, not with a gun. That was good. The Spade continued, "Maybe if we're lucky, those brain-bubbles will explode before Julia can go through the ritual. Better off dead, I say. I shouldn't have to be afraid of them crawling through my mind every time I walk down the street." He shivered melodramatically, and Crispin tried not to spew forth the remains of his last meal. Alright, there was being someone like himself, and then there was this egomaniac, who Crispin found direly unpleasant. He had all the charisma and lovability of a nasty nettle sting, and, were it not for security, Crispin would have jumped at the chance to sock him a good one simply out of annoyance. As it was, though, he preferred to keep his 'traitor' status secret.

"Yes, yes, I get it. Now, don't you have something to do?" he prompted, hoping to get the member far away before he burst a blood vessel and ended up in a semi-catatonic state. From behind him, Ozzy had stopped crying, only to bury his head in his father's shirt in fright over the revolting person. Crispin also noticed, with a slight eyebrow raise, that there was a third, quieter person in their cell. A woman, actually, lying glumly on the only bed (more of a worn, holey mattress, actually). She didn't say a word.

"Yeah, yeah. Jesus, Crispy, it's like I'm talking to a piece of wood. The sooner I can get this over with and collect my check, the better." He turned to the side and started walking off to who-knows-where, but then stopped. In thought, he turned back to the cage, where the three Aquatos were watching him warily.

"…_Boo_!" he crooned. It had the desired effect; Osmond started crying yet again, and the father rushed to his comfort. The Spade member laughed, and Crispin sighed at the immature display. It seemed preposterously pathetic to think that people like this made up the body of the Spades. One was left to wonder how on earth a family of commendable psychics could get kidnapped by them…

"Aw, does the tiny baby want his mommy?" the member drawled sadistically, further carving in a bad name for sadists world-wide. He rapped a worn knuckle against the bars, letting out a ringing noise that had Crispin in want of covering his ears and singing a tuneless 'LALALALALA' until it was done. However, much to his surprise, Ozzy chose that moment to try and act brave. He took a hesitant step closer to the member, his wide eyes determined.

"You just wait," he lisped. "My b-big brother _hates_ bullies, and he always helps me whenever someone's being mean. Raz's really strong, too. He'll make you sorry!" Oh, again with the big-brother-Raz thing. How typical of an ignorant child like him to make an older sibling out as an all-powerful being. Still, when in a situation like so, Crispin guessed he had to have some sort of hope, no matter how obscure. The Spade member, however, just chuckled at this.

"'Raz', eh…? What's that short for?" Ozzy swallowed heavily, but held his ground rather bravely. Actually, Crispin was impressed by his resolve.

"R-Razputin. A-and you'd better remember that, 'cause it'll be on your ob… ob… obitary." The member looked up, as if in thought, then shot the group a sideways look. It wasn't a confident look; rather, a confused one.

"Sounds familiar. Little kid, about three feet, dark jacket and aviator helmet?" The father perked up at this, his eyes wide, but not daring to say anything. There could be no doubt that the member had hit the target dead-on. Ozzy, however, stomped his foot angrily.

"He's not _little_! He's a _Psychonaut_, and they're made for beating up bullies like you, so watch it!" Once again, the member seemed to be thinking. Suddenly he grinned, screwing his finger up into the air as he had a sudden idea.

"Oh, yeah! I remember that little bastard. Saw him as they took the agents underground." The father tried to speak at this point, his voice small and stuttering as he struggled with what to say.

"What have… what have you done to him? Is he okay?" The Spade member smiled twistedly, his sick imagination at work.

"What have we done? Nothing… yet. But I'll let you know; once Julia gets her hands on that brat, it's over, and you'll be next. I get to help with the process. You're all going to die here, in horrible, horrible agony. By the time we're through, you'll be _begging_ for death. I'll make sure of that. And there isn't a damn thing you can do to stop us."

…And then he sneezed.

* * *

_...Ow. I'm kind of glad that's over with, truth be told. I was loving the beginning, but putting on a way to end it on a stylish cliffhanger proved harder than usual. Still, now it is over, and now we can move ONTO THE FLUFF! 8D So, in other words, to be continued. _


	20. How To Cope With Failure

**_Psycho Director: Hello, I am Psycho Director, and this is 101 Eyewitness News. In today's top story... -Shuffles papers- Super-star hotshot author with a sexy accent and great personality and good hair and taste in clothes, Psycho Director, was reported found alive and well, though a little bit less sane from what scientists have labeled 'Tech Withdrawl', after having been missing for eight days or so. Though sources are sketchy, the main rumor was that she was officially banished from Internet Land by the powers that be, after a strange incident involving coke and a small farm in Wisconsin. Citizens are baffled as to what this decidedly good-looking author has taken away from this brief period of banishment, and are excited to have their regular dosage of CD101 and SC:CP back and safe._**

**_Says Psycho, "It's good to be home."_**

**_Though the community suffered a short period of great losses and general confusion, with the safe return of Psycho, things should return to normal or better. (Kidnapping human children is good.) AND THAT'S THE NEWS!_**

**WE NOW RETURN YOU TO YOUR CURRENT PRESENTATION.**

**--**

Raz watched as Dr. Loboto beat the group to the cell where his family was kept, thrusting and twisting his peppermill with maniac glee directly in the face of the guard (?) before he could so much as turn around. The guard fell instantly, spewing his brain from his nose even as he hit the ground and was knocked out cold. The pink matter was sent skidding across the ground, only to be gleefully scooped up by the giggling doctor, who was jogging forward, his coat billowing behind him like a cape.

A lot of things happened at once then. Raz heard the sounds of his family—_his family_—screaming at the sudden re-braining, even as he jumped forward into the area. From up ahead, a sixteen-year-old Raz didn't recognize ran towards them, growling bitter, nonsense obscenities. Vincent was quick to intercept, having outrun the other three. In a way that seemed rather heartless, he socked the zombie-like boy in the right cheekbone, sending him sprawling. Then Loboto took over, giving up on his fondling of the other brain to make this one sneeze itself out, too.

"Dad! Ozzy! Naudia!" Raz couldn't help but yell, running up to the cell where his family was kept. D'art ran along beside him, already fishing out the key for the cell from his front pocket. Raz was infinitely relieved; he didn't have any powers to bust open the cell, and doubted those two guards had a key. In any case, Raz made it to the door first, putting on an extra boost of speed and blasting past Crispin, who was watching the entire show with a surprised expression.

And then they saw each other. The four just stared at each other for a while; three redheads and a blonde. Naudia was sitting on one of the three ratty old mattresses on the floor, her belly bulging over a white shirt and plain, rather worn jeans. Her short blond hair went down to her neck, and her light blue eyes were wide at Raz, who was impossible to tell as related to her to an outsider. His dad, meanwhile, was gaping at his son, his arm wrapped around Ozzy's shoulders still, protectively.

"Dad…" he said again, his voice breathless and eyes wide. However, just as soon, his face melted into one of determination, and he grabbed a pair of metal bars roughly. "Don't worry; we're gonna' get you guys outta' there! D'art, hurry up and unlock this thing!"

D'art, however, was busy with a problem of his own.

As Loboto eyed the oddly reddish and lumpy brain of the teenager, making disgusted faces, D'art was focused entirely on the other brain in the doctor's arm. It was pulsing and throbbing in a way that seemed remarkably unnatural, almost as if it was fighting to get free. But that was _impossible_, as only psychics could control their brains in such a way, and one look at this guy's brain proved that he was far from psychic. Somehow, though, this brain was moving around. And was it his imagination, or was their something inside it? He could barely see it; a tiny, black growth of some sort, with sharp edges, that was planted right on the neural fiber… like, like a…

"_Gah_!" D'art burst out suddenly, slapping the brain right out of Loboto's arm in a fluid motion. It was sent plopping to the floor, still pulsing and writhing. Meanwhile, the blue-skinned boy could see clearly the growth he'd spotted, its metallic luster furthering his dread. Loboto, however, stopped examining the Broken brain to shoot a glare at the other male.

"Just what was that for, you ingrate? Do you _want _for me to whack you over the head with this unhealthy brain?" D'art didn't answer. Instead, he was already fumbling for the key. With an angry grunt, he yanked a thick ring of keys from his pants pocket, thumbing through them impatiently.

"Raz, get your buddies out of there _now_. We need to get moving!" he exclaimed, looking only at the ring. Raz, meanwhile, looked surprised, and turned away from his shocked family.

"Why? What's wrong?" Crispin strode up to the brain on the floor while the others waited for D'art to find the right key, then bent down at the waist to gaze at the metal implant.

"I'll be damned," he muttered in way of answering Raz. "They didn't cut many corners when enlisting us."

"What is it, already!?" Vincent cried, stepping forward with purpose. From either end of the hallway, there came the sound of many footsteps, and the group (Crispin aside) shared a collective gasp. Crispin, however, ever the calm one, just continued explaining.

"It's called a Safety Brain. Mentallix, the company that makes all psychic merchandise, put them on the market after word got out of our experiments with brains, but they were pulled off quickly because virtually bugger-all wanted them. They're designed to be surgically implanted onto the brain. What they do is react to oxygen by setting off a tiny alarm that can be picked up with another piece of equipment, so they know when the brain's been removed." He gave the brain a little kick at this; it spun off wetly in a diagonal line towards the left wall, then was still. There was silence for a moment as the group processed this, then…

"D'art, _give me the key_!" Raz yelped at the other boy, his eyes wide. D'art bit off a bitter comeback with difficulty, instead hunting desperately for a medium-sized, silver number that he knew would unlock the cell. God dammit, _why_ did he keep all the keys on one ring!? There must have been dozens of cells and locks and safes down here, God, why was he so _stupid_, what kind of idiot would keep them all on one ring, why wasn't he _faster_… He saw his vision bubble and waver at the edges and thought, _great, way to go, you're crying over freaking keys, you moronic baby, you're panicking, STOP IT, just get the key and get out of here, I don't care if they're hot, you blubbering sissy…_

"Ow!" D'art suddenly cried, dropping the keys. They hit the cement floor with a rattling jingle, then stuck to it. Meanwhile, D'art blew on his hands, which, for some reason, were red and sore. Meanwhile, the set, oddly enough, started to bubble and drip. They molded together, silver hitting brown hitting bronze, becoming a useless mass that couldn't open anything, let alone the cell. Carefully crafted points and dips melted into a blob, while the nine just watched in shock. After a moment, the mass stopped forming and sat still, cooling in the brisk, underground air.

"What on Earth…?" Sophia spoke first, eyes only on the blob. She got her answer soon enough, though, as before anyone could speak again, soldiers flooded the hallway. They all had on blue uniforms identical to the one the brainless guard had on… and all had their rifles trained on the group. There must have been at least fifty of them, and none of them looked like they would regret peppering any of the rag-tag band with lead, given half a chance. They looked like they would almost relish it.

Silence reigned. After a moment or two, one soldier stepped forward, away from the others, and cocked his weapon. His face was unreadable behind his screen of a mask (you know… the kind riot control wear). However, his stance implied control and respect, and his rifle just brought that point home. He seemed to be the main spokesman for the Blast Yer Head Off party.

"Attention renegade civilians," he spoke, his voice loud and authoritative, "you are surrounded."

"No _shit_, Sherlock!" Vincent yelled back. The soldier just continued, as if he hadn't heard him.

"Please do not attempt any sort of unauthorized escape maneuvers. Just calmly put your hands up and stay where you are. You are hereby under arrest by the Spade administration and to be sentenced to immediate execution. If you should make any attempt to run, you shall be restrained and sent to the torture chamber for retribution. Please remain calm and keep your hands up in the air while our troops disarm you, so that you can be peacefully escorted to your doom."

"They have a torture chamber?" Sophia asked, raising a nervous eyebrow and holding up her hands obediently.

"Weird family," was Vincent's response. His hands were also up.

Raz, meanwhile, was the only one who hadn't moved. His eyes were locked on his father's, his hands still tight against the bars. He looked miserable, watching his family (his _real_ family—not the ones who had put them into this mess) stand there, a measly set of bars away. His eyes pleaded with them, silently asking, "what do I do now?".

"Do what they say, son," his father ordered, his voice stern even as his mind reeled against the very thought of sending his son away to be killed by those freaks. Raz shook his head slowly, struggling not to start crying.

"I won't leave you alone in here," he promised gravely. His father, Vladimir Aquato, just smiled sadly, then put one arm around a confused Ozzy and the other around a now-standing Naudia.

"I'm not alone, Razputin. For goodness' sake, don't worry about us. We're fine. And we'll find a way out of this, I promise." Raz just gripped the bars tighter, his knuckles white and eyes watery.

"But I don't want to go," he whimpered. "I can't do this by myself. I _need_ you."

"No, you don't. I love you, and I'll help you as best I can, but sometimes you need to be able to hold your own. This is one of those times. I can't follow you here, and I'm sorry."

"Dad…" Raz attempted to plead, but by this time, one of the soldiers had come up to him. He didn't say a word, but just planted a gloved hand against Raz's shoulder. Raz shot him a scared look, his hand instinctively reaching to pull the hand off him and stopping just inches from it.

"Don't fight them, son," Vlad spoke. "Now is not the time to start a rebellion. Not yet."

"But they'll _kill_ us," Raz argued, breaking eye contact from the soldier to watch his dad.

"Not if you don't let them," were Vlad's final words of advice. The soldier didn't bother with ordering Raz to move, knowing it would do him no good. Instead, rather than beating him with the barrel of the gun (as he would have done with one of the adult renegades), he picked the ten-year-old up by his underarms and thrust him over one shoulder, his body almost unresponsive to the sudden weight. He was strong enough, after all, and wasn't quite 'cold' enough yet to bring himself to beat a child.

Raz, though, seemed to find this sudden movement a horrifying figure for what was to come. His eyes bulged, and he kicked and squirmed against the soldier. He knew this could—and probably would—bring him the 'retribution' they'd mentioned, but he could care less. As the soldier began to walk away, towards where the others had already been taken into custody, he stretched a hand desperately towards Vladimir.

"_Dad_!" he screamed, livid. He pushed one hand against the soldier's shoulder (say that twelve times fast, _roll my eyes_), forcing his arm out as far as he could get it to go. It wasn't enough to reach the cell, and he yelled again. "_Help me, please_!" Vlad didn't respond. Ozzy, however, scrambled over to the bars and reached out towards Raz with both hands, as if he'd just woken up from a trance to realize that his big brother was being taken away.

"_Raz_!" he yelled, his high-pitched voice crestfallen. "Come back!" Raz tried. Really, he did. He struggled against the much-stronger soldier with all his might, his mind flashing with images

_(Water Razputin that's where you're going they're gonna' take you right into the deep and oh how you'll SCREAM but that damned hand will just keep holding you down pinning you to the sandy floor until you just can't hold your breath anymore and then you'll pass out and never wake up NEVER WAKE UP)_

of death, not just for him but for _everyone_, passed around like freaking _party favors_… but he was still scrawny and small and short (so very, very short), and he was still being taken away from his family at a walk, stretching for something just beyond his reach.

"Come back! Come back, Raz!" Ozzy wailed (Crispin winced). Vlad turned away from his second-oldest son (Atlas, loveable badass that he is, being the oldest) so that his face couldn't be seen. Naudia, having retreated back to the relative safety of her mattress, was silent. The others were silent, too.

"Should I silence the boy?" one of the soldiers asked the one holding Razputin, the latter having returned to the others. He held up his gun, sending a mute sign of how this 'silencing' wouldn't include comfort and soothing. Luckily for Raz, though, the first soldier shook his head.

"No. Let him have his moment. God knows he won't be having many more." The second soldier watched him a moment, ever wary for signs of mutiny. He found none, and continued sheparding the other five further into the labyrinth.

Raz was still yelling for his father as they took them away.

--

_THE END. 8D Or... To Be Continued. Whichever._


	21. No, Raz, I Saw This On TV Once

**_(Note to Iceboxme: Thar. I updated. I will expect my check to arrive in the mail shortly.)_**

**_As for everyone else and the mighty ALL, I bring you this chapter, carefully pulled from the platinum vault of maximum fic security by means of hiring a random person to take it out for me. This is the singular most zetta infinite equasion you hectopascals will ever formulate inside your vector. It's so zetta shebang that, were this algebra a factorial, the summed mass of the intergers would be congruent to the theoretical solution of the world being reduced to a negative digit equivalent to a googleplex._**

**_...Yes, I have been playing far too much The World Ends With You, thanks for asking. 8D_**

**_In any case, though, I must warn you. This chapter is aesthetically pleasing in a way that I will probably stand alone in appreciating. What I mean to say is this: if you thought the previous chapter was mean... then you are so screwed. This was basically a mix of a lot of factors--the nearing of the conclusion, the basic plot line, and personal 'yeah, let's just do this' attitude. What it is is a lot of pain and suffering and hints at pain and suffering and some nachos. Don't worry; it's not, in any way, as bad as To Break An Agent... -kicks ground- It just has some DOOM. Doom for all. Passed around for everyone like confetti from an Easter basket. -Tosses confetti from an Easter basket- So, yes, this chapter shall be a bit doomy. But yet! To have good times, isn't it the bad times that make them feel that way? With great love comes great loss, leading to a happy ending for all (except those who suck)! This fic has good times and bad times left, so why not enjoy the bad so we can love the good, eh? You will be evil... you will be evil... _**

**_In other news, here are some words that appear in the chapter that you may not understand:_**

**_Nicey/Huggy- Nice and hug-giving._**

**_Pendulumesque- In relation to a pendulum, in that it has a swinging motion._**

**_Membrane- A scientist. Has a big-headed son named Dib and a creepy daughter named Gaz._**

**_Escort Mission- A mission, usually in a video game, in which the player is assigned to protect an NPC from threats while attempting to reach a goal or survive a time limit. Famous examples include protecting Little Oly in the Meat Circus._**

**_Pin-Battle System- Originating from the game The World Ends With You, it's a complex and difficult-to-learn battle system in which the player has a set of pins they must use to fight with. Each pin has a specific power and specific way to use them, often by doing embarassing and psychotic things to your poor, innocent DS and DS stylus. Also, trying to move without activating a power is often harrowing and aggrivating._**

**_Support Pin- A pin from the pin-battle system designed to aid another specific kind of pin. Though handy when you have the pin to be aided on you, when alone, the support pin is useless. You can't even eat it._**

**_Electric Miner Lights- Dammit, I don't KNOW what they are! D8_**

**_Firestart- To use Pyrokinesis._**

**_Magical Adventure- CD101. Seriously, they're practically synonyms._**

**_Razzy-boy- A sarcastic nickname for Raz. Other nicknames include Razberry (me and Raz's siblings use it) and Breadbox (yes, it's a height joke). _**

**_Flip-Switch Lock- A type of lock in which a part of the machinery is caught against one of the parts (whether by self-impedement or design), preventing the part from moving, and thus the machine from starting. This can be started by either manually moving the obtrusion or activating another part of the machine to move it for you. A good example is when Napoleon jammed a turkey baster (-cough-Canadian squirt gun-hack-) into the cogs on the bridge at the last part of Fred's mental world level and Breadbox has to run over and kick it out._**

**_Life clock- Internal clock. Life span. As in, 'your clock is ticking' type of deal._**

**_Coffee Mat- Real name eludes me. Suffice to say it's a small, square mat, usually made of foam, on which to put a mug of coffee or other cuh liquids to prevent liquid rings on the table._**

**_Tin Pin- Another vague reference to The World Ends With You. It's a game usually played on the DS, in which two or more players shoot up to six pins (usually at a rate of one at a time) onto a small field at the other player's pin(s) in an attempt to knock theirs off the field. It's usually timed, and the player who either knocks all of the other player's pins off the field or has the most pins left at the end of the timer wins. In the DS version the pins have four different abilities you can use to aid you (Hand, Hammer, Dive, and Spike) and are controlled via the stylus. Players earn PP whenever they knock off another player's pin or pull off a successful ability and stun the other player's pin, which add up to levelling up in the actual TWEWY game._**

**_And now, your fic._**

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Even with his dad and brother and aunt far behind him, Raz still struggled valiantly against the soldiers. He gave the one holding him a good kick to his ribs when he saw another give a strangely-willing D'art a shot of that black gunk. He slammed his fists into the small of the soldier's back after a minute or so of silence, hoping (in vain) to catch him off-guard. He screamed until his throat was dreadfully sore, and kicked and beat his fists like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum until he was exhausted. He would have kept on, but at that time both Vincent and Crispin were groaning and telling him to shut up, and that was a blow to his ego something fierce. It was immature and stupid, sure, but some part of his mind was hoping for pity, despite the fact that he was in the same mess as everyone else.

_But they at least have their families,_ he thought bitterly, then immediately had to take it back. D'art had lost all of his family in a fire his family had caused. And Loboto and Crispin—who knew? Their families must have been bad, to abandon them in that awful asylum across the lake—and abandonment was often worse than loss. At least his (close) family loved him, and at least they were safe… for now. He realized, with a shock, that he was incredibly selfish. While D'art had risked his life to help them and was still coping with his sudden orphan-ness, he'd been doing nothing but insult him for being of blood he couldn't control. 'What's in a name', was that what they said?

_Great. Now you're going to be all nicey-nice, huggy-hug to D'art… just before you die! Great plan, genius. Maybe he'll die feeling just a bit more optimistic now. You're a big damn hero, Raz. _He cursed under his breath, giving one more pendulumesque punch to the soldier's back, more out of frustration than spite. No matter what way he looked at it, if those guys had their way, he was going to lose in the end. This drove him to a stubborn fury, but he was so tired. His headache was getting worse; it was now a full-on migraine. The membrane breaking couldn't be too far off.

He kept trying, though, even as the group was separated off: Vincent and Sophia down one hallway, Crispin and Loboto down another, D'art down another still, and then he was alone. Only two soldiers accompanied him down this hall; one holding him, and another at his side with a rifle in hand, should he try to escape. (_Like I'm going to do _that_, _he thought sarcastically.) Once the others were out of sight, though, he was put down and ordered to start walking by the one with the gun. Meanwhile, he noticed with sadistic glee, the one that he'd been throwing a fit on was rubbing his ribs and grimacing in pain from somewhere just inside his peripheral vision. Raz had obviously caused at least some damage.

He was made to walk down two more turns (left, then right) and about forty more yards before they came to another halt. It was dark in this place, aside from a vague light streaming from somewhere just up ahead.

"Stop here," the rifle-soldier ordered, and Raz did just so. There was a moment's pause, during which Raz attempted to look behind him (he didn't dare just turn around, as the rifle was poking into his back and feeling very deadly). Then, quite suddenly, he felt a hand reach past the side of his head and grab at one of his goggles' lenses, tugging up and roughly forcing the whole helmet off his head. He uttered a cry of indignation at this, reaching up to grab at the head protection, but the soldier merely held it up out of his reach, then flung it to the right. It hit the wall with a solid _thunk_, falling to the floor and into the shadowy gloom. Raz gaped, feeling oddly naked without his helmet.

"H-hey!" he cried. "What was that—" He never got to 'for', as just then the soldier with the rifle grabbed him by the back of his jacket and sweater collars, shoving him to the side and forcing him to collide awkwardly with the mine wall. His head, already aching, gave a surge as his forehead made contact, and he yelled in pain.

"Quiet!" the soldier barked, his fist still gripping Raz's collar. Quick as lightning, he swung back the gun, and Raz's eyes bulged from their spot against the rock.

"_No_!" he had just enough time to scream, believing that he'd be shot down dead where he stood, or at least shot. However, he wasn't. Instead, the barrel hit his skull with a nauseating _crack_, making him gasp and have red flash in front of his vision. His forehead dug into the rock at the sudden motion, the sharp edges cutting into flesh and spilling warmth across it.

"Guuhughawazzah… ugh…" Raz murmured, his ears ringing and head swimming. He fell to the ground limply, the soldiers not even bothering to cushion his fall. From just beyond the shrill blare in his ears, he heard voices.

"You didn't have to do that, Sean," someone said.

"He'll be more cooperative this way. Don't tell me you'd rather stay as a kid's punching bag?" the other replied.

"I wouldn't… but that was just cruel."

"No. Cruel is letting him stay conscious for whatever Julia's got in mind." And then Raz blacked out.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Have you ever heard of a Chinese Water Prison before? In case you haven't, it's a trick used by many magicians in the past—most famously, Harry Houdini. It's one of the dime-a-dozen escape tricks made famous by said magician, where the devious trickster has to escape a deadly situation before the show becomes a bloodbath. The twist? He (or she) has restraints—everything from a finger trap to being in a locked safe in… uh… a block of cement, where the cement is frozen solid and buried in six feet of dirt and falling from a twelfth story window into a pool of lava and dragons and zombies and zombie dragons that breathe lava and shoot streams of battery acid from their eyes and the whole thing's a timed escort mission with a needlessly complex pin-battle system but the only pins you have are Support Pins and your escort is Little Oly and all the bunnies and _ooooh my God_ it's not fun.

What does that have to do with this chapter? Scarcely little.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

When Raz regained consciousness about an hour later, he realized that there was good news and bad news about what had just happened. The good news was that his migraine was gone. The bad news was that he was suspended nary three feet above a natural well of really deep water by a series of painful chains looped around his wrists and hooked up to some kind of pulley system, with Julia standing at the well's edge next to it and grinning at him. They were in some sort of large, brown, underground cavern, lit by those electric miner lights he'd seen on TV and filled with tunnels lining the walls, doubtlessly leading further into the underground hellhole labyrinth. D'art, Vincent, Sophia, Loboto, Crispin, Vlad, Osmond, and Naudia _(I have a lot of characters, holy crap)_were nowhere to be seen. Instead, the room was crowded with enough generic guards and the usual, slightly-better-designed main villains to make it seem like an assembly. And guess who was the main attraction.

Raz assessed the situation quickly, then offered his review: "Damn it."

"Comfortable, my little cousin?" Julia asked, her voice taking on the 'overly-sweet' tone it did when she felt she'd won. Raz switched his glaring gaze back to her (he had been looking around the area), attempting (and failing) to firestart her with his mind. She just kept on smiling, though, and all Raz got for his efforts was a weird feeling entering his mind at the attempted use of his powers—a sort of dizzy, muted feeling, between when you fall down a flight of stairs and when you have water in your ears. Well, at least it was better than a pounding headache, like he and Sophia and Vincent had been afflicted with. Sophia, Vincent… wait!

"What did you do with my friends, you… you… jerk!?" he demanded, remembering the first rule of every issue of True Psychic Tales: others before self. Julia, however, seemed less than impressed with his valiant selflessness.

"Jerk? You're losing your touch, Razputin. What is that, the seventh time you've said that on this magical adventure?" Raz blinked.

"Uh… I didn't count." There was a pause, then Julia shook her head quickly.

"Nevermind." And then she was back to being evil. "I've waited for this moment for such a long time, Razputin. Sure, I could have just shot you at the asylum, like Sophia saw in her vision. But where would be the fun in that? After all you've put me through, I want to see you scream for mercy before you die. I want this moment to be so much more than a shot to the heart. I want to _know_ when I can live again. And I want someone to pay for all this." Raz rolled his eyes at this, letting skepticism and mockery take over his heart instead of the biting fear that threatened to. However, something Julia had said confused him.

"Vision? What vision?" he asked. This caused Julia to giggle in a weirdly girly way, and for Raz to question her sanity for not the first time.

"Oh, that's right!" she perked, before Raz could remark on her psychopathic giggling. "You didn't see it, did you? Oh, too bad. It was so nice. It was the only way we could catch your girly friend, you know. We used all of your weaknesses, that damn water aside. Your foolish trust in your family and hate of your bickering comrades, Vincent's confidence and lust, and Sophia's ever-so-handy psychic empathy and urge to protect people. She was so determined to keep teeny-tiny Razzy-boy safe from all the trouble of the big, bad asylum, I needed to know what would happen if she failed, without actually jeopardizing this moment. So I simply sent a psychic illusion into her mind, which I further added to once Commodus had knocked her out. I made her believe that we had murdered you and Vincent in front of her eyes, and that your zombies were out to _eat her brains_. It was hilarious!" She laughed again, while Raz just hung there in shock.

"You… you made her believe… we were… _murdered_?" Raz gaped. His shock, however, quickly turned into anger, and he yanked against the chain. "_How could you_!? She didn't do _anything_ to you!" Julia waved her hand, dismissing Raz's fury as if it were just a pesky fly.

"Yeah, yeah. So what? Raz, you're mine now. And soon enough, you'll be no one's. No one's but the water. So suck it up, you sap, and get ready to meet your—" she paused, then let out the perfect evil-villain laugh, to Raz's disappointment "—_doom_!"

"That… was so bad," Raz remarked, almost unable to believe someone he was related to (even a psychopath like Julia) was such a drama queen. Julia paused, halfway towards the pulley system. At this remark she let out an aggravated sigh, pressing a manicured hand against her forehead like she had a headache (_I wish you did. I wish you had the exact same cyst I do_, Raz thought bitterly).

"I told you, I've been waiting for this moment for forever. I get excited." And then she was at the system, already fingering what looked like a flip-switch lock against the smallest and farthest (from Raz) gear. Raz knew he didn't have much time, so he quickly fired off the first question that came to mind. It was an odd one, coming from him.

"What about D'art? What'll you do to him?" He wasn't sure quite why he said that, but felt no urges to take it back. He had to know, because… why? Why did he care about a stupid Galochio?

_Maybe because you finally figured out the truth about blood feuds, eh, Razzy-boy? They're all pointless and stupid. Remember what you thought before? What's in a name? _He asked himself. He didn't have time to ponder this, though, as Julia was already answering his questions.

"D'art? Oh, don't worry about that two-timing idiot. He's been taken care of." Raz's eyes widened, his mind slowly gathering up this information. He stuttered when he could speak again.

"Y-you… you don't mean…" His mind came up with an idea; one so wicked and cruel that he was barely able to even consider it. He felt a lot like bawling. "D'art… _no_…" He didn't bother looking at Julia—too busy sniffling at his shoes—but he heard her scoff.

"Pathetic. I can't believe you care so much about a tiny brat of a Galochio. Did you forget, oh dear cousin? _They're_ the ones who put us into this mess! _They're _the ones who want us all dead!_ They're _the reason why I have to_ kill_ you, along with all the other loose ends to the Aquato name! Why the _hell_ would you start blubbering over one of them!? You sick, little, spineless, whining, idiot Aquato!" She gave the flip-switch lock one hard kick. The switch—the tiny piece of metal holding the pulley system in place—swung down with a jerk, and the pulleys began to turn. Raz gasped, his eyes panning up to the links, which were coming down and bringing him ever closer to the water with every _clink_.

_Clink, clink, clink…_

He remembered, oddly, the receptionist back at HQ, who had taken up the habit of tapping his pen against the desk like a bad addiction. This seemed, to him, like a much deadlier version of the tapping pen—one where each tap ticked by like a second passed on his life clock.

_Clink, clink, clink…_

"I'll see you in hell, Razzy-boy," Julia crooned. A few guards cheered, only to be quickly hushed by the others. To them this was just entertainment, the equivalent to going to the movies or reading a book. Raz wondered, on the off-chance someone found out about this case and ever took the time to write it down, if those readers would think the same. Maybe they'd settle down in a comfortable chair, a cup of juice in one hand and a purring cat on their lap, using his misfortune as a scripted distraction from their otherwise normal lives. Maybe people would take it with them; yawn as they sat next to Raz in the front office; laugh at the first encounter with Julia; sweat at Sophia's vision/nightmare thing; sob at the ending, and use the whole story as a coffee mat when they were done. It was an interesting, deep, and random thought.

_Clink, clink, clink…_

Raz looked out at the crowd for what felt like the final time. He saw Julia grinning like a madwoman. He saw two people (Misha and Artimus, though he didn't know that) playing some game on their pink and black Nintendo DSes that involved frantic stylus flicking and screen turning, completely oblivious to the real entertainment. He saw a burly guy he recognized Commodus standing at attention behind a mousy-looking guy he didn't recognize. And, standing at the back of the crowd with his arms crossed, looking entirely bored with the whole thing, he saw someone he though he'd never see again.

Atlas. He shot his older brother a desperate look, shocked and appalled that the same person who had taught him to play Tin Pin and hit on girls could be going along with his execution. The world froze. The two brothers made eye contact, emerald green meeting dark pine. For just a moment, Raz fully expected his older brother—the person he'd idolized before the latter had run away; the person he'd based his own running-away on—to come to his rescue, yelling at Julia to stop this and using his own powers to knock that wench straight into the water, then grab Raz using telekinesis and apologize profusely for running away, that it was stupid and pigheaded of him to leave his younger siblings just because of a falling-out and to swear to come back home with Raz to a delighted family…

…Then he gave a little, sadistic grin and a little wave, and Raz knew his hopes were dashed. The chain clinked on, the cool water brushing against his shoes, and he screamed, for he knew he had lost.


	22. Going Under, Breaking Down

**_Psycho Director: Alright, people, I have good news and bad news. The bad news is this will be the last chapter I update for a while, because tomorrow I'm leaving on a vacation to Idaho for two weeks (family reunion... ironic, eh?). The good news is... wait, that was the good news. THERE'S A NEW CHAPTER AND I'M GOING ON VACATION! 8D_**

**_Also, because a few people have expressed concern, and I'm not sure how to put this in-story without making it a deux ex machina... No, Raz will not die. D8 It pains me to be so blunt about it, but people have written threats and such if I yank everyone's character death chain again. IT WAS TWO TIMES AND YOU JUST CAN'T LET IT GO, CAN YOU!? xD He may come dreadfully close, and there may still be a bit of violence to be weaved through the system, but there shall not be death on Raz's (and, for the record, D'art's) part. That's as far as my spoilers go, though--every other character is running on sunshine, rainbow dust, and frantic hopes. Some people will die, even some important people... but I will NEVER tell as to who. MUA HA HA._**

**_And now, now that you're probably/hopefully nervous and biting your fingernails in anticipation, is your chapter._**

**_--_**

The next thing Raz knew was a _snap_, cutting through the steady string of _clink_s like a knife. He had just enough time to wonder what the hell made that noise, and then he hit the water with a heavy_ splash_.

Oh, God, it was freezing. The water jabbed at his skin like thousands of nettles, slipping into his clothes and against his scalp and his open eyes in the way only water can. His air tried to shoot out from his mouth, but he pursed his lips and sealed it inside in the only way that he could. He felt panicked. No, he couldn't be _in the water_, Aquatos should never, _ever_ go in the water… _Razberry, get away from that water, that's bad for you, you know you can't swim…_

Suddenly, so fast that he instinctively screamed out the last of his air (to his horror), he felt something icy and slimy and disgusting wrap around his midriff. He knew what it was; he'd felt it a few times before. It was the Hand. It was also quickly followed up by another linking with it, gripping his stomach until he felt his ribs would crack…

…Squeezing those last, pitiful bubbles of air from his burning lungs…

…Yanking him down, down, ever farther from the shimmering, beautiful surface and closer to the black of the deep, of death…

…He struggled against logic, breathing in water and choking with the mad severity of someone who's facing death and scared. Gloved hands dragged painfully slowly through the water, reaching up and scattering bubbles of something he needed and couldn't have…

"Help me…!" he attempted to yell, his breathless voice coming back warbled and unintelligible in the freezing blue. Slowly, his hands came to a still, halting their efforts of yanking at the Hands and reaching for a surface impossibly far away. His skin began imitating the color of the mistakenly beautiful and innocent lake, his efforts at finding air becoming littler… littler… gone.

He saw spots before his eyes, twisted black shapes flashing in and out, more and more, as his mind starved. They became bigger and bigger, consuming his vision like the water was consuming him. The cold of the water numbed his body as well, and soon he could see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing… And then he stopped moving altogether, still trapped in the death grip of the Hands.

--

Julia stood at the water's edge, not even minding that the chain had broken too early. After all, what did it matter? Her cousin—her dear, sweet, idiot of a cousin—was fighting a losing battle for his life at the bottom of fifteen yards of water, even now watching the last of his air leave him for good. At last, at least one end of the family line was cut off. Now no one would be born with the burden she had to carry. No one else would have to face the Hand. Well, she still had to kill Naudia and Osmond for that to be certain, but she could dream, right? She was a big hero due to her villainous actions… and it felt weird.

Somewhere in her mind, she felt a shard of pity for her fallen cousin. After all, Raz was a sweet kid at heart, even if he was annoying and far too energetic and she hated him. The truth was, she wasn't a murderer type of person. Her evil laughter and devious traps were just her way to hide her secret repulsion for their plans to slaughter the ends of her family line. Still, she had to do it. She had to destroy the past to prevent a future in which even one person lived in fear. This was for _good_. If even one more Aquato male fathered a child, and that diseased name spread on… that was why Naudia, Osmond, Raz, and Atlas (though he didn't know it yet) all had to die. She couldn't—she _wouldn't_—let the curse keep going.

_Damn you, Stepan_, she thought for not the first time, rubbing her eye with her fist before anyone could see. He had done this. He'd turned her into a monster—a big, ugly, unlovable monster. He made her kill off members of her family and be hated by the survivors, who were too pigheaded to understand that it was their fault, too, for having children. Him and his bratty, angsty son with the dumb hat.

She hadn't killed D'art. Raz died believing she had, but she wouldn't go that far… yet. She could only kill who she needed to. She kept D'art around to keep their secret safe and to use as bait for Stepan. She kept Stepan around because he was the only one who could lift the curse, being the one who placed it—but would die before he saved her and Atlas. D'art stayed because he had nowhere else to go. Stepan stayed because he needed D'art, who hated him (not that she could blame him). He was vital to keeping her tiny hope of a Plan B alive. She had 'taken care of him' by locking him away with the other Aquatos. Let them have fun trying not to kill each other.

She sighed, then burst out laughing. The laughter was maniac and grossly exaggerated, startling in its suddenness. She laughed until she started crying, then cried until she was giggling. Raz was dead, D'art was under her control, the curse was nearly gone, and life was good.

--

D'art kicked and struggled against the soldiers dragging him away from the others by his arms in a way not unlike Raz did. Still, in a way also not unlike Raz, his fighting came to no avail, and he found himself being taken, oddly, down the exact same way the guards had come in from and had taken the rest of the group.

Sure enough, he soon came to the same cell that he'd tried to open with the keys that were now in a melted blotch on the floor, only this time as the prisoner instead of the freer. He could only assume Loboto, Crispin, Vincent, Sophia, and Raz were in the other one. Unless Julia already had Raz… But D'art shook that thought away. It was just impossible for him to see Raz standing still, let alone dead. That Aquato was always bouncing off the walls.

"You wanted in so bad…" one of the soldiers growled lowly, jerking D'art from his thoughts and forward a half-step. The other soldier slowly, leisurely undid the lock, pulling the door open with a loud _creak_. Then, suddenly, D'art felt the floor hit him hard, knocking against his front with enough force to make him cry out, hurt, but not enough to cause serious damage. The soldier chuckled at D'art's pain, slamming the door shut again loudly.

"…So here you go." D'art was up in a flash, though, tearing past three shocked Aquatos to pound on the bars angrily.

"You can't do this to me!" he demanded, shooting the amused soldier a hateful glare. "I can have you executed in the underground lake, you know!" At this the more sadistic soldier came a step forward, smirking at D'art, but just past his reach.

"Sorry, kid. It's telekinetic orders from the higher-ups—straight from the Queen Bee herself. So why don't you just sit there like a good boy and cool off? Think of it as a time-out, as punishment for helping the infidels." And then he left, crossing his arms as he trotted royally down the hall. The other soldier followed behind him meekly, leaving D'art to scream himself hoarse at their receding forms.

"_Come back here_! You… you… Ooh, you're going to get it! Just wait 'til I get out of here! _I'll skin you alive_! You hear me!? You'll pay for this!" He paused to breathe, planning what to say that could possibly convince the soldiers to come back and let him go (to put it short, not much). However, he was cut off by another, unfamiliar voice interrupting him.

"You… you were with Raz before," the blonde woman stated, her voice breathy and dazed. D'art, meanwhile, jumped at the sudden voice, then slowly turned around to face the three Aquatos he was trapped in the same room with. They were all… _looking_… at him, their green (and blue) eyes wide and shiny. For just a second, upon looking at them, D'art saw maniac gleams and twisted grins, and clawed hands reaching for him, eager to tear him apart where he stood… Then he blinked and it was gone. However, the terror of the flashback remained.

"Who are you?" someone D'art recognized as Raz's dad asked, looking curious but keeping his distance. D'art, however, knew of what lay beyond that. He knew of the Aquatos' _potential_. He knew they wanted him dead… and that damn black gunk made that all too possible.

"_Stay away from me_!" he screeched, his knuckles white against the bars. He whipped back to where the soldiers hand been, struggling to catch their attention. He tried begging. "There has to be someplace else you can put me, _please_! Another cell, Julia's room, the torture chamber—_I don't care_! Please, don't leave me in here! I-I'll pay you! I'll do whatever you want!" He looked down the hall, desperate for any sign of a return, but there was none. His forehead connected with a bar, and he gripped the bars tighter, until his hands were shaking. "Please…"

"Excuse me," Raz's dad said politely. D'art felt a hand against his shoulder and whipped around, coming face-to-face with a man Raz loved and he feared. The feelings made for an odd mix—a tiny, Raz-like voice in his head urged him to trust this person, and a much stronger voice whispered memories of the fire that had stolen his family into his ear. As it was, the stronger voice won out, and D'art slapped the hand away quite rudely.

"Let go of me!" D'art yelped, taking a jump-step back. Then it was him in one corner, pressed against the wall like a cornered animal, and the Aquatos in the other.

_Oh my God, I'm gonna' die, _D'art realized suddenly, his mind flashing back to every single, blood-strewn memory of his last day at home. Nevermind that he'd spent a year with Aquatos, and had… almost… befriended one of them. He was still stubbornly certain that they wanted to kill, and that scared him. Being locked in a cell with the three of them was like being shoved into a closet with a pack of rabid dogs.

"No… this isn't happening…" D'art tried to delude himself, reverting to his old habit of pulling his knees up and burying his head in them whenever the memories came. He'd thought he'd long since outgrown it, but… "I don't wanna' be Broken…" His hands moved up to grasp his scalp, as if hoping he could somehow keep his mind intact that way. His mind sang _It's just a dream_ over and over, but he knew it was no good. This was solidified as he felt a hand against his back, and he nearly burst into tears.

_I'm sorry, Raz, Vincent, Sophia, Loboto… I failed you… _

"Whoa, whoa, easy now," a voice spoke, its tone warm and welcoming. "No one's going to hurt you. It's alright." D'art didn't bother looking up, for he already knew who was talking. Also, it made it easier to keep calm when he wasn't looking into _their_ eyes.

"Liar," D'art murmured to Raz's dad. "You're all the same." He added, under his breath, "You and the rest of your dumb family." Raz's dad, however, caught it.

"…What's your name? Your _last_ name." D'art stuttered his answer, uncertain quite what to say. They didn't know him? He was the son of Stepan Galochio, for Pete's sake! The man who had cursed them to die in water after his wife had been manslaughtered by one of them, then took a vow of silence to prevent him ever spewing out the cure… On the other hand, if he was careful, he could use this confusion to save his life.

"D'artagan Ga… Gailel. B-but everyone calls me D'art," he stuttered, combining syllables in his head. There was a moment of silence, then…

"That wasn't what you were going to say. You were going to say 'Galochio', weren't you?" D'art's head whipped up as fast as it possibly could, its shocked, brown eyes meeting a pair of calm green ones. He gasped, his mind sent whirling as his cheaply assembled disguise was shattered.

"H-how did you…?" Raz's dad just smiled. It wasn't a sadistic, Julia smirk, and certainly not a mad Mr. Saguaro grin. It looked like something his aunt would have flashed him, during the seven years he'd known her, loved her, and pretended she was his mom, for lack of a proper family.

"I've had more than my fair share of enemies in my life, D'art. There comes a point where you have to teach yourself how to tell friend from foe—and you don't look like a foe." D'art just stared up at him, glassy-eyed and confused but no longer quite as scared.

"But… the curse…" he began, not wanting to start a fight, but overwhelmingly curious. Raz's dad sighed, gaining a faraway look in the process. D'art noticed, out of his peripheral vision, that the six-or-so-year-old boy and the blonde lady that were in the same cell they were in were sitting on the mattress, watching the two talk. Like Raz's dad, they didn't look angry at the Galochio that had been tossed into their den like a fish to a bear, but instead just curious.

"It's true. I do have a lot of hate inside of me for that, and, not too long ago, I would have blamed any Galochio for that. I fear that hate wore off on my children—especially Atlas. And yet, now that I've had that bitter racism hit me back with this… this slaughtering, I've seen how much of a fool I was. Blaming an entire family line for something like this is just unforgivable. If I were to blame you, then I'd be no better than the people who locked us in here." D'art just continued gaping, now thoroughly shocked. It seemed unbelievable to him that an adult could look at this with the same bluntness he had had (and Raz seemed to be developing). Every important adult in his life, aside from his late aunt, had been obsessed with the Hand of Galochio, force-feeding him family hatred and dragging him along for the ride like a child's doll, but without the care. It was from them that he learned to lock away his emotions, becoming cold and embittered towards Galochios and Aquatos alike. He'd taken Julia's maniac plans and rare moments of uncertainty with stride, believing simply that the Aquatos were terrible and always would be… yet, at the same time, denying their vengeful ploys against the Galochios with his knowledge of how not like his hated father he was, but that was more for self-protection than being against the stereotype. He'd grown up to hate everyone, hiding his memories of the circus fire out of both horror and the fact that he was scared to find out just what he had become.

In a way, just as Raz's dad had been no better than the Spades, he'd been no better than Stepan. He hated Stepan for the curse, but to hate Stepan for that stereotype was to hate himself. Over the year, with Julia and Atlas goading him on even as he attempted to patch his psyche together from the circus and his alleged 'kidnapping', he'd chosen to add his own name to the list of people he despised. As such, he'd been sailing without a purpose, like a stranded dingy in a sea of confusion, right up until he'd decided, on a whim, to get himself involved with the attempted rescue of the Aquatos. Now he didn't know what to think.

"D'art," Raz's dad spoke up, "I think you'd better tell us what's going on."

And so, blinking back tears of doubt, D'art told them everything, starting from the circus fire, right up to where they sat now. And Naudia, and Osmond, and Vladimir, did nothing more than listen.

**_--_**

_Yes, D'art kind of cries a lot. Hey, he has a traumatic life, lighten up (-cough- what a pansy-hack-)! In any case, though, this story is yet To Be Continued! And remember: this ship runs on reviews and happy thoughts, so REVIEW! (And think happy thoughts, you know, if you really feel the need to.) I will never give up, until one day CD101 becomes THE MOST POPULAR PSYCHONAUTS FIC ON FANFICTION DOT NET!! 8D Or... until it ends. Whichever comes first._


	23. And So It Was

_**People of Earth, I have returned. Once again, I shall be here, to spread love... and harmony... and... Aw, screw it, you all know what I'm really here for by now. FOR THE VIOLENCE AND GORE, BABY!! 8D And some plot-giving and science and crack, but mostly violence. As for where I've been, that is elementary.**_

**_Idaho._**

**_Any questions? No? Good. Let's get to work, then. It's flashbacky time. Oh, and, for the record, this chapter is one of those chapters that I find hysterical at points. However, I am one of the few that do. So some parts may take very lightly some otherwise SERIOUS BUSINESS, so... beware or something. Yeah._**

**_-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --_**

_**-Flashback-**_

"M-me?" D'art asked Julia dubiously, instinctively bringing his hands up to level with his mouth. "An Aquato?" Julia just kept on smiling, nodding in a way similar to how someone would when someone very stupid has just figured out the answer to an obvious question and they're faking enthusiasm. Though, with a woman like Julia, it was impossible to tell whether she was faking or not.

"That's right, silly. Who knows? You could come in handy. It's just me, Atlas, and Hector right now. We could use some new blood, not to use a bad pun here." She turned to flash her creepy grin at Stepan, still not releasing D'art's shoulders. Stepan, D'art noted with extreme surprise, seemed infuriated. He'd never seen Stepan show more than slight annoyance.

Not when he'd come, bawling, up to him when he was six, after a few teen boys who had seen the show accused him of being a 'freak' and tried to hit him with rocks (not that any of them hit, due to his dexterity and their poor aim).

Not when a new recruit, Ricardo Garcia, was discovered raping Candy Pepper (a beautiful ringmaster who'd had her first name changed just for the shows) by Mr. Saguaro one night, when he was seven.

Not when the strongman, Hans Franklin, had beaten Ricardo within an inch of his life after he learned of this.

Not when Ari and Shugo had been caught smoking their first cigarettes, hidden by his own caravan.

Not when he caught D'art and Ari talking with a strange man after yet another show, who told the two prepubescent boys that he was an ice cream man and promised them free chocolate triple-scoops if they just followed him, alone, to his truck.

Not when Shugo had claimed he was gay and began hitting on Ari (to D'art's great amusement), only to be revealed as an attempt to dump a girlfriend of his without hurting her feelings.

Now, however, he looked like he was going to pop a blood vessel. This scared D'art, who found himself uncertain of the undying guardianship of his father that he'd bet on just moments ago. A few minutes back, he'd have been delighted to see his normally weak and willowy parent driven so hard, and have happily sicced him on the Mind Broken army. But now… now he feared for his life.

"_No_!" his dad roared, the sound startling boy and lady alike. Even the teen on the couch jerked his eyes up from his video games. Meanwhile, Stepan slid to his feet with serpentine grace, giving the pair an icy look. The look was directed at Julia, of course, but D'art still caught the edge of it and shivered. He'd never been dependant on his father, clinging immediately to his kind aunt after his mother's death, but he'd never fully branched out from the mousy parent, either. He still felt like he needed his papa. But did his papa need him?

Stepan continued, still enraged. "I… will… _never_… surrender my son to you!" He shot Julia an even scarier look, but she refused to be daunted. She kept her hand wrapped, vice-like, around D'art's wrist, and D'art was no longer sure that he wanted to escape. Where did he have to go besides with the Aquatos? The rant continued, and D'art actually found himself gripping Julia's hand with his free one.

"He is _mine_, don't you understand?! I will die before I allow any Galochio to be sold to you bastards! Leave this place! _Leave_ before I curse you to drown where you stand!" Julia just smirked, refusing to so much as flinch. She enjoyed toying with Stepan, turning the tables for once. In desperation, then, he turned to the now thoroughly frightened D'art.

"D'artagan, don't listen to those foul creatures! Obey me!" D'art just shot his father a wild look, clinging tighter to Julia's hand. He'd never seen Stepan angry before, ever. Yet these strange people had not only angered him, but caused a personality flip in him so extreme that he seemed like a different, terrifying person. D'art knew: even if he managed to escape what he now recognized as a psychic assault on his family, he'd never trust this person again. He missed his aunt. Slowly, so much that he was barely aware that he was doing it, he shook his head. Julia laughed, loud and barking, at this.

"Sorry, old friend. Looks like it's three against one." She looked back at D'art, and this time her smile was real. It was spiteful, cruel, and vengeful, but real. "Come on, D'artagan, let's leave. There's nothing left here but sour memories." And D'art, stunned and confused but hungering to try and win some information, smiled at her. It wasn't much more than kissing up, his inner selfishness temporarily overcoming his love of his family, but of all of them, Julia seemed the nicest. It nevertheless further enraged the new, scary Stepan.

"What sort of… What is this!? Hypnotism!? You took my wife already—you can't take D'artagan, too! You won't! Fight it, D'art,_ now_!" It was then that the teenager, who had been oddly quit throughout this, spoke up. His voice was quiet, but commanding.

"Let it go, Stepan. You know it wasn't our fault. It was an accident." Stepan, instead, turned his fiery glare to him.

"Silence, Aquato! You're nothing more than a family of filthy murderers, the lot of you! A bunch of witches, spreading your evil from generation to generation… so why shouldn't I stop it? You should be grateful I'm freeing your children from a life of cruelty!" D'art blinked. He'd never heard this before. He'd just heard that the Aquatos deserved what they got because they were rotten… their side of it. He began to wonder, was it even possible for a whole family to be evil? His dad seemed to think so, but he wasn't at all sure. Julia and Atlas seemed devious, but not necessarily that bad. Evil seemed to suit Stepan better, disconcerting though it was.

"What accident? What happened?" D'art blurted before he could stop himself, no longer hungry but ravenous for information. He could only take being lost for so long. So, clinging onto Julia's arm like a lemur, he waited for her to explain. Instead…

"Ugh. Atlas, cover this one, will ya'? My therapist says I need to work on my anger management," she groaned, yanking his SP out of his hands with what D'art recognized as telekinesis. If Stepan was angry at this blatant use of ESP/"witchery", or if Atlas was upset at being deprived the simplistic happiness of a Disney game, neither showed it. Instead, Stepan silently pouted, and Atlas cleared his throat in preparation of story time.

**_-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --_**

"Wait," Naudia interrupted suddenly, yanking D'art and the others out of the reservoir of the flashback. While D'art blinked a few times and Ozzy shook himself like a dog stepping out of a lake to dry, she continued, "is this a flashback _within _a flashback?" D'art looked confused for a moment, before he suddenly realized where he'd gone in his recollection.

"Well, sort of…" he began, but then quickly assuaged it. "But it's a really quick one. And kind of important, too." The three Aquatos shared a look, silently asking each other questions and exchanging information, then gave their individual versions of a casual shrug. They didn't care.

"Good. Let's continue."

**_-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --_**

"Whelp, it's really not that impressive, actually," Atlas admitted. "Contrary to popular theory, we didn't get to be landlubbers from an evil, magical spirit living in a rock, an ancient family feud, a Victorian love affair between families, some Tarot card call of destiny, a Medieval war, some dumb kid with powers, or an untimely use of a Whoopee Cushion. The whole thing's considerably more retarded." D'art bit back the urge to giggle at this older kid's blatant mockery of his own fate. Not only was he funny, but he had the kind of casual attitude that D'art admired.

"_What_ did you say!?" Stepan fiercely demanded, making a motion to get up from his chair and, perhaps, beat Atlas senseless for his imprudence. However, Atlas remained calmly lounging on the rosy, needlework couch, his dark clothing clashing with the delicate white lace fallen over the back and the heavy knit, pale pillows flopped against it. At this calm demeanor, Stepan was forced by sheer willpower to sit back down, warily eyeing the smirking boy. Once he was sure Stepan was settled, and once even Julia and D'art had mutually decided to sit cross-legged on the ground in front of him, hands against their chins like twin kindergartners being read a story, he continued.

"Nope. My brothers and baby sister still think it was some ancient fight or… whatever… but working with the Spades has taught me that the curse was brought on simply by some jerk-ass who read too many _Batman _comics growing up." He turned to the 'jerk-ass', then, and his face, for one moment, looked sincere. "Look, I heard about what happened to your wife, and I'm sorry. There, I said it. Don't expect that ever again." Then it was back to the kindergartners, only one of which was actually interested in this recapping.

"It all started one day about… seven years ago, I think. Back before Ozzy and Rena were born, when Raz was learning about the magic of a sippy-cup, and I was a little younger than you, Sockhead. Anyway, life was simpler then. I was still in the traveling circus gig, and everyone had pulled up near Lake Coeur d'Alene for some shows and swimming on the side. Well, oddly enough, the Spokane area seemed to be a circus hot-spot back then. The Galochios—that's you—had already pulled up, shockingly. Turns out it was a pre-planned event, but I didn't learn that 'til later. Then all I knew was that I had some new performers to relate to." D'art could clearly imagine it: a tiny, cuddly, seven-year-old Atlas Aquato staring up at their caravans with eyes aglow and a friendly demeanor that matched his attitude and not his clothes. D'art was beginning to understand that Atlas's rebel-against-authority looks were skin-deep, and there were actual emotions behind the leather and chain. He gripped Julia's hand tighter, and listened.

"Well, sure enough, I met a group of kids who seemed as happy to have some Aquatos around as I was for them. So, while my dad was inviting your parents for some lake swimming before the show, all buddy-buddy, the five of us went out to the playground for a round of… uh…" Julia smiled in her own, mocking way.

"Go on, Atlas. For a game of _what_?" Atlas smiled back, nervously, rubbing the back of his head. D'art giggled, forgetting for a moment that they were enemies in the middle of a roaring fire dotted with madmen and fighting for his destiny. He'd already made his choice, preferring this humorous story time to Stepan's dangerous mood swings.

"Man, I shouldn't have said that… Can I start over?" Julia just kept smiling, slowly shaking her head back and forth. Atlas groaned; D'art snickered.

"Fine, fine. For a round of… of Captain Atlas's Happy Pirate Ship. Happy now?" There was a long silence… then Julia and D'art both burst out laughing uproariously, holding onto each other for support. Atlas buried his head in his hands, blushing a shade of red normally reserved for tomatoes. D'art couldn't remember Coeur d'Alene, being far too little for that, but could nevertheless just barely imagine the emo-dressed teenager (no longer replacing his visage for that of the average seven-year-old) at a plastic toy wheel in a playground, twisting it around and singing 'Yo Ho Ho and a Bottle O' Rum' while providing his own, ship-like onomatopoeia. The thought made him laugh harder, until he had tears springing to his eyes and had stopped even vaguely thinking about his grim-looking future.

"Man, Atlas—oops, I mean, Captain—that's just classic!" Julia giggled, wiping her own eyes. "Okay, okay, I'm done. Whew! Continue on, Captain." Atlas shot her a death glare, but nonetheless straightened up and settled back into his spot. By the time Julia and D'art had stopped chuckling, then stopped gasping for air, he was ready to calmly continue, albeit with a still remarkably red face.

"Okay, yeah, so we were doing… that… for some time yet. We were just about to head back to the camp to grab something to drink when, suddenly, somebody screamed. This wasn't totally weird—after all, that water was cold, and lots of people start spasming once they try getting in. However, then a _guy_ screamed. Then another guy, and this one I recognized. It was my dad, and that's when I knew something was wrong. He wasn't the type to yelp just because it was cold. The other kids must have known something was wrong, too, because two of them yelled somebody's name and started running, and the rest of us had no choice but to follow them. I thought there must have been a shark attack or something, 'cause all these people were crowding around the beach and talking loudly." The humor in Atlas's voice had quit, to be replaced by a sense of terrifying foreboding. Even as D'art, Julia, and even Stepan leaned closer to hear what Atlas had to say, he brought his tone down further, to a low mutter.

"We got there as fast as we could, and between the five of us managed to weave our way towards the front of the crowd. I wish we hadn't, though, because what we saw there was possibly the creepiest thing I'd ever seen. She was just lying there on the sand, her skin all pale and eyes bulging like water balloons. Her mouth was gaping like a fish, and I thought she had put on colored lipstick at first, because her lips were this unnatural shade of blue, like sky. There was this lifeguard pushing against her chest in this really weird way, and I was wondering why no one was stopping him, because I thought he was a pervert or something—especially when it looked like he was making out with her. However, she wasn't moving or anything, and that's when I knew something was wrong." D'art gasped, already too aware of who the grotesquely-described woman on the beach was. His mom.

"By the time I got there, she was already long-since dead and gone. And that was where everything went straight to Hell."

**_-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --_**

_To Be Continued..._


	24. The Chapter That Disappointed Everybody

**_Wow, this chapter took forever. I swear, God Himself must've not wanted this to be. Not only was it a pain in the nether-reigins to write in the first place (even after having cut out a lot of the more boring parts), the laptop I was typing it on caught a huge virus and had to be scanned for hours, I had Writer's Block, and my dad took it without notice on the very day after I finished this chapter you now read._**

**_...I'd better get a lot of replies on this. -Unhappy face-_**

**_In brighter news, though, despite its cliffhanger ending (what, you were expecting otherwise?), this chapter marks the end of the flashback! Any questions left over will have to be answered later. I tackled a few of them, but the whole origin of the Spades and whatnot will be addressed at a later time. This was starting to bore me like crazy, and I'm sure you're all eager to get back to the real story. But that will have to wait until the next chapter. Mua ha ha._**

**_Finally, thank you all for your reviews so far! I'm hoping, once I get to the end of this story (though not nessisarily the end of CD101 itself...), I'll be able to go back and edit some stuff based on the advice you all have given me. Then, just maybe, CD101 will become THE BEST FANFIC EVER!!_**

**_...Or it'll just look a bit shiner. Whichever._**

**_In any case, HERE IS YOUR CHAPTER! It's good to be back in the writing flow again._**

**_-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --_**

"Mom!" D'art gasped aloud, his hands moving from under his chin to grasp at the floor. His eyes widened in horror, almost as if he were there at the park, watching the failed resuscitation with everyone else. Julia, on the other hand, was as bored as ever. She took no notice of D'art's shock, only waving on gloved hand at Atlas.

"Yeah, yeah. Some chick died, big whoop." Stepan ground his teeth at this.

"Some _chick_? That was my wife, Aquato! Your family _murdered_ her—in cold blood! She was a perfect angel, taken from me by the pure evil of this world, manifested—"

"…As a cruel and brutal gypsy family, blah, blah, blah, we get it already," Atlas and Julia both spoke at the same time, their voices mirroring each other's sarcastic tone. This speech had obviously been done and practiced before. D'art was surprised, but, frankly, too confused to speak up on it. Instead, he kept his eyes trained on Atlas, who was continuing the story.

"She'd been swimming with a few other guys—yes, that's right, Stepan, _Aquato_ guys—when they had a race, or so I've heard. It was her, two of my uncles, and my grandpa," Atlas continued. He was speeding up for some reason; probably eager to move on. D'art, on the other hand, didn't know what lay in the future and was frightened of this, so he stared intently at the teen's face, trying to slow down the story by sheer force of will.

"It wasn't a long race. All they had to do was go from one end of the beach, where all the sand was, to the other, where the cement bleachers were at. They agreed, and the four lined up at the end, all ready and determined to win, despite the lack of a prize. They bobbed up and down in the icy water, glaring at the expanse of blue in front of them, and waited while my uncle did the countdown.

"'Five!' he cried, his voice stretching across the lake. You could practically feel the tension in the air, as the carefree families began the competition." D'art watched as Atlas got gradually more and more into the story, waving his arms and imitating his uncle's voice to the best of his ability. The nine-year-old could clearly imagine the setting: a laughing, loving group of friends together for a casual day in the lake. He was reminded of the days of his own distant family get-togethers, however rare they might be, and the casual yet dogged spirit of competition. He smelled the salty air of the beach, felt the icy mist given off by the water, and saw the sparkling, welcoming waves of the lake, calling him in with a power subtly masked by beauty and innocence. In his imagination, he felt content, at least for a while.

"'One! Go, go, _go_!' he screamed at last, taking off with the others even as he spoke. The air was filled with the sound of hands slapping against the waves, a kind of awesome, energized noise that sent the racers' hearts fluttering and their bodies shooting through the water. They didn't have the grace of, say, a pack of dolphins, but they were still splashing around and flailing in their desire to get there first. They went off, faster and faster, and everyone thought some Aquato was going to win, being that it was three against one… But no! Sylvia got there first, believe it or not!" His voice echoed with ghostly cheers, and D'art imagined his mother holding her arms up in the air victoriously, grinning and laughing at the three losers even as they washed up, still smiling, at her sides. He felt like laughing, too, at that moment; just standing up and yelling, "go, mom!" in front of everyone.

His imaginative image, however, was cut off by what Stepan had to say next.

"Yes…" he crooned behind them, his voice gruff, low, and frightening. "Yes, she did beat you all in that silly race. She won fair and square. But you couldn't have that, could you? No, you damn Aquatos had to be the best at everything, right? _Right_?" He stepped forward, and D'art winced.

"Dad…" he whimpered. His father reeled on him.

"And you're no better than they are! I've tried to protect you from them, to keep them from taking you away with her, only for you to pretend they're our allies! Don't you realize what they've done to us!? They murdered your mother, you insolent child!" D'art paled, his wide eyes locked onto his father. A sudden silence overtook the room, as D'art once again found his role models in question. The Aquatos had burned down the circus and killed his mom over a race. His dad had cursed an entire family to die based on three people's actions. The Aquatos had taken over the minds of the surviving performers using psychic powers that D'art was beginning to realize he had. His dad had brought this upon the Galochios without telling them, all for the sake of a grudge.

…D'art decided, in that moment, that he really didn't like people.

"It wasn't like that," Atlas whispered. "It was an accident."

"Pah! A likely story!" Stepan scoffed. Suddenly Julia stood up, in such a flash of fury that even Stepan balked. Her face was livid, and she stormed past a gawking D'art and Atlas, until she was face-to-neck with Stepan Galochio. She glared up into his eyes and opened her mouth, but seemed too furious to find anything to say, for once.

"Listen, girl," Stepan began, in lieu of Julia speaking. However, she gained her voice just then… and quite a lot of it, too.

"_No_, Galochio. You listen to _me. _Do you have any idea—any at all—of what you've done? You're _retarded_. You can't just go around blaming entire family lines for something a few relatives did, regardless of whether it was true or not! Look at us. I had a younger sister and a close cousin of mine that both died because of this curse. You didn't know them. Atlas's grandpa drowned a few weeks back. You didn't know him, either. I have an older brother, and Atlas has two and a sister—one of which is a baby. Did a baby kill your wife, Stepan? Huh?" Stepan was silent. Then he spoke, even more quietly than Atlas had.

"I'm doing you a favor…"

"By killing off innocent people like livestock? Explain."

"Don't you see? No one deserves to live with a name such as yours. The Aquato name is a sickening reminder of what you really are—a bunch of witches! A shameful, thieving, lying, murdering band of filthy _gypsies_! I will not rest until that name is naught but history, regardless of how many of your lives are lost! My only regret was that it took the death of a wonderful woman for me to see who you really are!"

"You take that _back_!" she yelled loudly, nearly shaking the entire tent down as she did so. D'art, meanwhile, looked up at her angry composure, then ran a finger nervously along his shirt collar. Just being around someone so hot-headed made the room feel considerably warmer. Atlas seemed to notice, too—or maybe he was more concerned about their well-being—as he immediately attempted to calm his friend down.

"Hey, hey, ease up. We promised the little guy a story, so the sooner we get that over with, the sooner we can get out of here. Okay?" Julia was not convinced. If anything, the plea made her angrier.

"Shut up, you… you dork!" she cried, frustrated. "Because of this guy, my life has been nothing but a living Hell since I was born! What's the point of living at all if you're just going to die painfully? Do you _know_ how many times I've thought that? How many _suicide attempts _I've made!? And to hear—after all that—that this guy_ doesn't even care_!?" She snarled ferociously, swinging her fist forward as if to punch Stepan. D'art held out a hand tentatively, not even sure if he wanted to stop her, not even sure if he didn't want to join in himself…

"Julia!" Atlas prodded, his voice desperate.

"SHUT UP!" Julia screamed. Her fist made brutal contact with Stepan's nose, sending blood spraying across the carpet and sending Stepan tumbling to the ground. He landed painfully, and D'art gasped. Oddly, he found himself more concerned with Julia's anger management than Stepan's well-being. Hell, he was more concerned about the stains the blood would leave on the carpet.

That was when D'art realized that he hated his father. He hated him for doing this to them all. But, in the meantime, Atlas and Julia were yelling at each other, the fire was burning, and D'art's future was on the line. So, quickly, he put his feelings on the back burner, for what would later turn out to be almost a year. He didn't know that then, though, and instead settled for watching Julia and Atlas have at each other with wide eyes.

"Julia, stop! You've gotta' keep control! You're the one keeping it up!" Atlas exclaimed confusingly. Julia wouldn't even look at him. She was too busy glaring spitefully at Stepan.

"Who cares? We'll get out of here before that happens! This might be my only chance to make this guy pay!" She swung her foot back this time, nailing Stepan in the stomach and making him cough violently.

"How dare you…" he panted out between gasps, ever the hateful one, "use more of your witchcraft in front of me! In front of my own blood! I'd rather burn than watch you save me with your dark magic!" He spat roughly onto the ground. D'art winced.

"Witchcraft? _Witchcraft_!?" Julia roared. "You think our ESP—out one weapon against the likes of you—is just a bunch of spells and potions!? Even when your own _son_ is one of us '_witches'_!?" There was a sudden moment of quiet. Julia was breathing heavily, still looking furious at Stepan, but everyone else was frozen in shock. Stepan's eyes—an icy, wintery blue—fell on D'artagan, who was looking at him in shock, horror… and shame. He was thinking about the paint can back at the supply tent, and the fluorescent shield he had made while facing off Mr. Saguaro. Suddenly they didn't seem so cool.

"…D'artagan," Stepan whispered. In that moment, he seemed very old, and very lonely and sad. For just a second, D'art could see exactly where his dad stood on this, and it was almost enough to let him not hate him. Almost. "Is this true?"

"I'm sorry, dad," D'art muttered back, his eyes downcast. He knew it would break his dad's heart for him to admit that he was on the Aquato's 'side'.

He did not expect, however, for his dad to react the way that he did.

"Go, then," he mumbled, gaining gradual strength as he continued. "Go join your friends. Have a great, merry time, killing innocent people and blackmailing whoever is strong enough to try and get back at them. Go ahead, boy, and tear family from family with your sickening 'gift', seeking revenge for revenge and setting off chains of hate for generations to come. If this is how you respond to those who took your mother, and now the rest of your family, then so be it. _I have no son_." D'art gasped, feeling childish tears threatening to spill from his eyes at this speech. His dad was the last family he had left, and that family didn't even want him? What could he do but go with the Aquatos like he ordered?

_You mean surrender to them_, a cold voice in his head reminded him. _Surrender unconditionally, and hope they have enough use for you to keep you alive for a few more years. _D'art shivered. As if accenting this, he head the distinct sound of rope supports being stretched beyond their limit. He looked up worriedly, only to yelp as he saw the tip of the tent they were in beginning to smolder. Behind him, Atlas cursed loudly.

"Dammit, Julia, I told you to focus! The shield's weakening, thanks to you. The tent's already caught. We have to get out, now." Julia rolled her eyes, but listened, anyway. She seemed to have calmed down some—odd, considering the speech Stepan had made would have probably usually made her all the more angry. D'art guessed that she had more important things to worry about than father-son love, or the lack of it.

"Alright, alright. Look, Stepan. You placed the curse. You must know a way to reverse it; right?" Stepan stood up shakily before responding, during which the air became uncomfortably thickened with smoke that poured in through the tent fabric, like a sieve.

"Of course I do," he scoffed, "but I would never give it away to the likes of you. You're as good as dead." Julia just nodded.

"That's close enough. Come on, guys, let's blow this popsicle stand." D'art realized that he was part of the 'guys'. He looked towards her hesitantly, already inching towards the door. The air was heavy with smoke, and his eyes burned slightly. The sooner he got out, no matter what was out there, the better. So many things were happening at once that he was in shock, almost. He glanced over one last time at the other three. Julia was standing impatiently behind him, with crossed arms and a tapping foot. Atlas was helping (more like _forcing_, actually) Stepan to his feet. It was time to go; so, with a sigh, D'art stepped out, still not taking his eyes off of the others.

It was because of this staring at them that he didn't see it coming. He only had just enough time to watch Julia's and Atlas's faces shift into ones of horror as they looked beyond him, then to turn his head around, confused, in an attempt to see what they were looking at…

…The next thing he knew was a split-second glimpse of something brownish-blonde and peppered red, and then an excruciating pain shot through his body, centering at the spine and sending every nerve on edge. The thing collided with him and sent him flying dizzily, until the ground came up to slam into him. He lost consciousness before he had even stopped moving.

**_-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --_**

_And that's the To Be Continued! On the next chapter... D'art has been keeping secrets from everyone! Will we find them out? Probably not, he's just a jerk like that! Three familiar people join the crowd--but is it in time to save Raz? Or are the commenters right, and I actually did decide to kill him instead of just taunting you all? The point behind the name--revealed, sort of! SOME PEOPLE JUST MIGHT ACTUALLY DIE!! And you can only see it on the next chapter of _Cheating Death 101_! _

_That was the worst advertisement ever... I need a drink..._


	25. To Join the Pieces

**_((A.N. Spam Dump Part 2 of 3 COMMENSE. Oooooh my, I hated writing this beast SO. MUCH. Words cannot even explain it. I got about three quarters of the way into it, truckin' along merrily, then BAM. Sudden brain meltage. I mean, it was so bad that I couldn't even put the standard cliffhanger at the end of this, and could only manage to plow on through sheer willpower and the concept of the next chapter, which will be about seven thousand times better, at least for me. So yeah, if this thing sucks like something that sucks a lot, I am sorry._**

**_Whining aside, YAY YAY EVERYTHING IS COMING TOGETHER. 8D Literally, too. Expect to see some of our favorite co-stars appear again, and maybe some... other stuff. Also of note is that, throughout the continuing duration of the fanfic, Raz's dad will continue to be referred to as Vladimir, even though the offical canon Psychopedia (which deleted the two TOTALLY AWESOME articles regarding Crispin and Linda and now fills me with hate, mind) notes him as Augustus, because A. He's been called as much thus far and B. Augustus is such a horrible name that just typing it right there made my eyes water and gave me a very slight headache. Typing it multiple times would probably lead to a fatal aneurism and then no more CD101, so there._**

**_Psychonauts fanfiction, awaaaaaaaaaaay~!))_**

At last D'art finished his narrative, a long and winding version of the aforementioned chapter that was, albeit, considerably less melodramatic. That done, and with secret cravings for a tall glass of water needling his head, he sat back and waited for a response.

The audience of three came on, at first, as silent as they had been throughout the recount of the entire happenings of _Cheating Death 101_ thus far, and D'art began to feel a bit nervous for their reaction. Though his fear of his imminent slaughtering wasn't entirely unwound yet, it was more the thought of a series of negative reviews that had him slightly worried. Surprisingly, he found that he'd be able to take a murderous mobbing better than a remark of him being a whiner at that moment, probably because he vastly believed that the Aquatos three didn't have a violent bone between them. To put it shortly, he called their bluff.

"…Well?" Ozzy piped up impatiently, his high-pitched voice cutting through the silence. "What happened next? What happened next?"

"Don't pester, Ozmond," Naudia shushed him. D'art, on the other hand, just shook his head.

"I… I don't know. When I woke up, I was in this happy home." His voice was quiet and slow, and he didn't bother to look anyone in the eye. Vlad had a suspicion that this wasn't the whole truth—far more than a suspicion, actually. D'art was hiding something from them. Something had happened after that; something he didn't want to tell them.

However, Vlad never had a chance to call D'art out on this as just then, about three seconds after Raz had taken his icy plunge and an hour or so before the sun rose on this crazy night, the wall blew up.

--

Agent Sasha Nein had two new things in his pocket, nestled snugly between his Swiss Army knife and a half-empty carton of Camel Lites. The first was a powdery white, extremely foul-smelling substance wrapped up in a small, round, bronze container, the likes of which could be opened and shut like the plastic Easter egg from which it was shaped. The second was hard and glowed a vibrant purple, and was usually found filed away in the same file cabinet as Area 51 or used as a form of remarkably cheap currency (equivalent to about ten cents), depending on who you asked. Both were useless to Nein himself, seeing as he was neither feeling faint nor close to a lodge from which to purchase all his psychic needs, cheap, cheap, cheap.

Agent Milla Vodello had nothing new, aside from a mink jacket, as it was nearing September and unseasonably cold. Otherwise, she had just the same orange dress, pink tights, and white gloves and boots that she had donned on that morning, before heading off to Redcliff County HQ for routine Psychonauts work. Of course, it should be noted, this wasn't before giving both Raz and Sasha forehead kisses and bagged lunches, causing the two males to blush and speak "uh" between every word.

Lili had nothing. Not even a new sweater.

The team of two Psychonauts and one less-than-happy camper crashed through a randomly-chosen wall, carving open the solid dirt with light blue, vibrant pink, and shiny gold psiblasts. The stones and dirt that had managed to avoid being burnt to cinders fell in a light shower around the hole, cutting through the gently wafting ashes like… like a Swift Attack to neatly settling Razor Leaves.

Beyond the broken wall? Nothing, aside from yet another long, winding tunnel. This one was quiet; not even the diligent _pata-pata_ of a running Spade member cut into the echoes of the blast, least of all the sound of an anemic-looking boy recalling a gruesome tale to an enraptured audience in a theatre made up of bars and stony rock.

"Dammit, another freaking hall!" Lili cursed loudly, inadvertently covering up her concern for a boyfriend that was, at this point in time, screaming and falling into a lake of death just far enough away so that he went unheard by the heroes… Which was actually a good thing, in retrospect. Milla just pursed her lips at Lili's sailor-speak, but was able to interpret it as concern well enough, and thus didn't reprimand her on it. She'd known Lili long enough to decipher concern and frustration from actual anger.

"Easy now, darling. Let's try the next wall. We'll find them soon." Lili pouted and crossed her arms, refusing to let it show that her psuedoanger had been breached. Sasha just rolled his eyes, letting the peanut gallery entertain his thoughts even as he readied another psiblast at the unsuspecting wall ahead…

"Okay, dears," Milla crooned, preparing her own blast, "on three. One… two… three!"

--

"Whoa!" D'art yelped as the wall blew, his cry of shock blending into the other yells of "Ah!" "Good Lord!" and "Daddy!" Meanwhile, the dust hadn't even had time to settle before a man, woman, and girl stormed in, looking very professional for their rag-tag getup. Immediately, as if practiced, the man with the sunglasses ran up to Raz's dad, the woman to his retarded son, and the girl (who was just an inch or so shorter than him) to nary a foot from his face—which was pretty close. She looked angry, and, unlike Milla, D'art couldn't tell if this was fake or if he'd done something he shouldn't've. He guessed it was pretty real, though, as she grabbed his collar with all the angry power of Julia during everyone's least favorite time of month.

"Where's Raz, you Keebler reject!?" she demanded. D'art blinked, momentarily confused by what he supposed was an insult before he realized she was referring to his elfin-like appearance, much to his chagrin. Still, it was a little known fact that D'art worked best under threats. In the time it took to blink, his emotional revelation had been hidden by a cool and calm atmosphere. He tried a bargain.

"Raz? You mean the guy with the bomber and goggles?" He smirked as the girl's furious expression deepened, her face gaining an unsightly red hue. Still smirking, he scooped her hands into one of his own like a modern-day Casanova, freeing his shirt collar, then let them drop to her side. Now was the time to use one of the few things he'd learned from Julia—and quick. If his suspicions were right, Julia's love for the dramatic would buy them a bit of time in the field of saving Raz, but not forever. He was on a severe time limit.

"To answer your question," he began, keeping his face and voice calm even as his heart ran laps, "I know where he is, besides in trouble. I could tell you, but first I need you to do something to help us both." He gestured towards the bars, hiding a devilish smile. "For now, all you need to know is that the only way to get to him is just down that hall. Then I can have my revenge, and you can have your happy ending." The girl glanced towards the cell door, but just as soon went back to glaring at D'art, holding her fists level with her collarbone as if she were about to duke it out right then and there. D'art knew it was dangerous to provoke this girl's psychic aggression, but if he could keep her calm just long enough to get to Julia and the others…

"You know, you talk weird, for an imprisoned kid," she glowered. "How do I know I can trust you, elf-boy?" D'art winced involuntarily at the 'elf-boy' comment, but fought down the urge to yell back. Instead, he recalled a line he'd seen in a movie.

"Can you afford to take that chance? These tunnels go on for miles, you know. Could take you hours to find anything." She glared at him a while longer, sorely tempted to pop him a new one, as it were. However, D'art could see the way her brown eyes shot from one end to the room to the other, considering her options. If he was right—and he severely doubted he was wrong—then she had better listen to the elf.

"Alright, elf-boy, I'll bust you out. But only for my dorky boyfriend." She left him, then, walking up to the end of the room opposite of their entry hole. Ahead of her loomed the firmly locked cell door, which did wonders for making her look small and weak. Then again, she did just help blast a hole in the wall with her head. D'art made a mental note to try and avoid making her angry.

While Lili was analyzing the door, D'art took a quick look around. The Brazilian woman was scruffing a smiling Ozzy's hair while asking Naudia about how they had wound up here. The German was nodding at Vlad, who was trying to explain the family curse in as small of a nutshell as possible. No one was paying attention to D'art or Lili.

"Alright," Lili confirmed to herself, grinning at the door. Still grinning, she pulled her fist back. For a moment D'art gasped, convinced that she suffered from temporary insanity and was going to bust her hand open on the door. Then her fist started glowing gold, and D'art realized what was going on.

"I'll break you to bits!" she cried, slamming her psychic fist against the door repetitively. With loud, ringing _clangs_, the door bent and twisted to her will, curving backwards as a giant fist and bright yellow psychic sparks bounced off it. Everyone in the cell, aside from Lili, cried out at this, planting their hands firmly over their ears. Slowly, and with joint-like _snap_s, one bar after another came free. They clattered to the ground as Lili whaled on the door tirelessly, her fists blurring with the speed and strength in which she hit it.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, Lili stopped. Four bars had been knocked loose, and two more had large gaps torn into them. Truly, the door had not been _opened. _It had been _obliterated_.

"…Woah," D'art said. His expression matched the ones on everyone else's (again, except for Lili) minds. Lili sighed, satisfied, then turned back to the group expectantly.

"Well? Are we going to go kick some bad guy ass and save Raz, or just stand here looking dumb?" D'art shook his head, swallowing, then ran up and jumped through the new hole. He landed on top of one of the broken rods, but to an acrobat, that was nothing. If anything, he enjoyed using his grace for the first time all day. Still, time was short, so he quickly jumped off it and turned to his teammates.

"Follow me!" he ordered. The others only stared. Lili fell beside him, expression impatient, and began to explain.

"This guy says he knows the way. Much as I'd hate to trust him, we don't have time to argue, so we're leaving. Stay here if you want; my boyfriend's in trouble, so I'm not going to sit around and try to convince you. The rest, follow the pasty blue glow."

"Can we stop with the appearance jokes, pigtails?" D'art asked darkly. Lili just barked out a laugh, turning to face him and crossing her arms.

"'Pigtails'? Is that the_ best_ you could—" Someone coughed. Lili froze in mid-sentence, turning around slowly. Everyone else had already stood up, and were waiting impatiently for the two crazy kids to move out of the way of the door. Lili's face turned red.

"Sorry, I'll just—" she was cut off for a second time as D'art shoved her impatiently to the side, barreling past her as fast as he could run. She cried out, temporarily becoming a victim to vertigo, before regaining her composure and scowling. Instantly, a sparkling gold levitation ball conjured under her feet, and she shot off in hot pursuit. In no time she caught up, and the two ran and levitated side by side, their pace fast and even.

"What are you _doing_?" she demanded.

"They want to… make your friend… into some form of sacrifice," D'art gasped out while running. "We'll never be able to catch them in time… unless we hurry." Lili's eyes widened, and she struggled to remain aloft.

"_What_? Why didn't you mention that_ little_ fact sooner?" D'art scowled.

"There was no time…. to explain the whole story… and there still isn't… I'm sure he'll explain… after we rescue him." Lili just frowned, staring straight ahead in silence. A long pause ensued, in which each raced to find Raz. Finally, as the silence began to grate on D'art's nerves, he decided to ask Lili a quick question.

"By the way… how'd you manage to break the cell wall like that? …That must take some powerful… psychic aggression." The silence continued for about half a second before Lili's head jerked up and towards him, as if she'd just figured out that he was talking to her.

"Huh? What? Oh, sorry, I was just thinking." D'art ignored this. He knew what she was thinking about, of course, but didn't feel quite ready to address it.

"Uh-huh. So, the wall?" Lili blinked, confused, then remembered his question and laughed nervously.

"Oh, right, that. Well, I just imagined it was you, and the aggression just flowed in. You know how it is." D'art slowed down for a second at this, frowning self-consciously, then ran back into his usual pace, letting his frown drop into a full scowl.

"Oh, you're _charming_."

--

_OMG IT'S FINALLY DONE. I mean, To Be Continued! Yeah! Also, review if you want Raz to leeve. I'm Psycho, remember. I'm not afraid to kill him off. REPEATEDLY. Yes, I'm threatening you for reviews. Suck it up._


End file.
